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villain, (But yet no coward) and sollicites me To my dishonour, that's indeed a quarrel, And truly mine, which I will so revenge, As it shall fright such as dare only think To be adulterers. _Cham._ Use thine own waies, I give up all to thee. _Beau._ O women, women! When you are pleas'd you are the least of evils. _Verd._ I'le rime to't, but provokt, the worst of Devils. [_Exeunt._ _Enter Monsieur_ Sampson, _and three Clients_. _Samp._ I know Monsieur _La-writ_. _1 Cly._ Would he knew himself, Sir. _Samp._ He was a pretty Lawyer, a kind of pretty Lawyer, Of a kind of unable thing. _2 Cly._ A fine Lawyer, Sir, And would have firk'd you up a business, And out of this Court into that. _Samp._ Ye are too forward Not so fine my friends, something he could have done, But short short. _1 Cly._ I know your worships favour, You are Nephew to the Judge, Sir. _Samp._ It may be so, And something may be done, without trotting i'th' dirt, friends; It may be I can take him in his Chamber, And have an hours talk, it may be so, And tell him that in's ear; there are such courtesies; I will not say, I can. _3 Cly._ We know you can, Sir. _Sam._ Peradventure I, peradventure no: but where's _La-writ_? Where's your sufficient Lawyer? _1 Cly._ He's blown up, Sir. _2 Cly._ Run mad and quarrels with the Dog he meets; He is no Lawyer of this world now. _Sam._ Your reason? Is he defunct? is he dead? _2 Cly._ No he's not dead yet, Sir; But I would be loth to take a lease on's life for two hours: Alas, he is possest Sir, with the spirit of fighting And quarrels with all people; but how he came to it-- _Samp._ If he fight well and like a Gentleman, The man may fight, for 'tis a lawfull calling. Look you my friends, I am a civil Gentleman, And my Lord my Uncle loves me. _3 Cly._ We all know it, Sir. _Sam._ I think he does, Sir, I have business too, much business, Turn you some forty or fifty Causes in a week; Yet when I get an hour of vacancie, I can fight too my friends, a little does well, I would be loth to learn to fight. _1 Cly._ But and't please you Sir, His fighting has neglected all our business, We are undone, our causes cast away, Sir, His not appearance. _Sam._ There he fought too long, A little and fight well, he fought too long indeed friends; But ne'r the less things must be as they may, And there be wayes-- _1 Cly._ We know, Sir, if you please-- _Sam._ Something I'le do: goe rally up your Causes. _Enter_ La-writ, _and a_ Gentleman, _at the door_. _2 Cly._ Now you may behold Sir, And be a witness, whether we lie or no. _La-writ._ I'le meet you at the Ordinary, sweet Gentlemen, And if there be a wench or two-- _Gen._ We'll have 'em. _La-writ._ No handling any Duells before I come, We'll have no going else, I hate a coward. _Gent._ There shall be nothing done. _La-writ._ Make all the quarrels You can devise before I come, and let's all fight, There is no sport else. _Gent._ We'll see what may be done, Sir. _1 Cly._ Ha? Monsieur _La-writ_. _La-writ._ Baffled in way of business, My causes cast away, Judgement against us? Why there it goes. _2 Cly._ What shall we do the whilst Sir? _La-wr._ Breed new dissentions, goe hang your selves 'Tis all one to me; I have a new trade of living. _1 Cli._ Do you hear what he saies Sir? _Sam._ The Gentleman speaks finely. _La-wr._ Will any of you fight? Fighting's my occupation If you find your selves aggriev'd. _Sam._ A compleat Gentleman. _La-writ._ Avant thou buckram budget of petitions, Thou spittle of lame causes; I lament for thee, And till revenge be taken-- _Sam._ 'Tis most excellent. _La-wr._ There, every man chuse his paper, and his place. I'le answer ye all, I will neglect no mans business But he shall have satisfaction like a Gentleman, The Judge may do and not do, he's but a Monsieur. _Sam._ You have nothing of mine in your bag, Sir. _La-writ._ I know not Sir, But you may put any thing in, any fighting thing. _Sam._ It is sufficient, you may hear hereafter. _La-writ._ I rest your servant Sir. _Sam._ No more words Gentlemen But follow me, no more words as you love me, The Gentleman's a noble Gentleman. I shall do what I can, and then-- _Cli._ We thank you Sir. [_Ex._ Sam. _and_ Clients. _Sam._ Not a word to disturb him, he's a Gentleman. _La-writ._ No cause go o' my side? the judge cast all? And because I was honourably employed in action, And not appear'd, pronounce? 'tis very well, 'Tis well faith, 'tis well, Judge. _Enter_ Cleremont. _Cler._ Who have we here? My little furious Lawyer? _La-writ._ I say 'tis well, But mark the end. _Cler._ How he is metamorphos'd! Nothing of Lawyer left, not a bit of buckram, No solliciting face now, This is no simple conversion. Your servant Sir, and Friend. _La-writ._ You come in time, Sir, _Cler._ The happier man, to be at your command then. _La-writ._ You may wonder to see me thus; but that's all one, Time shall declare; 'tis true I was a Lawyer, But I have mew'd that coat, I hate a Lawyer, I talk'd much in the Court, now I hate talking, I did you the office of a man. _Cler._ I must confess it. _La-w._ And budg'd not, no I budg'd not. _Cler._ No, you did not. _La-w._ There's it then, one good turn requires another. _Cler._ Most willing Sir, I am ready at your service. _La-w._ There, read, and understand, and then deliver it. _Cler._ This is a Challenge, Sir, _La-w._ 'Tis very like, Sir, I seldom now write Sonnets. _Cler._ _O admirantis_, To Monsieur _Vertaign_, the President. _La-w._ I chuse no Fool, Sir. _Cler._ Why, he's no Sword-man, Sir. _La-w._ Let him learn, let him learn, Time, that trains Chickens up, will teach him quickly. _Cler._ Why, he's a Judge, an Old Man. _La-w._ Never too Old To be a Gentleman; and he that is a Judge Can judge best what belongs to wounded honour. There are my griefs, he has cast away my causes, In which he has bowed my reputation. And therefore Judge, or no Judge. _Cler._ 'Pray be rul'd Sir, This is the maddest thing-- _La-w._ You will not carry it. _Cler._ I do not tell you so, but if you may be perswaded. _La-w._ You know how you us'd me when I would not fight, Do you remember, Gentleman? _Cler._ The Devil's in him. _La-w._ I see it in your Eyes, that you dare do it, You have a carrying face, and you shall carry it. _Cler._ The least is Banishment. _La-w._ Be banish'd then; 'Tis a friends part, we'll meet in _Africa_, Or any part of the Earth. _Cler._ Say he will not fight. _La-w._ I know then what to say, take you no care, Sir, _Cler._ Well, I will carry it, and deliver it, And to morrow morning meet you in the Louver, Till when, my service. _La-w._ A Judge, or no Judge, no Judge. [_Exit_ La-writ. _Cler._ This is the prettiest Rogue that e'r I read of, None to provoke to th' field, but the old President; What face shall I put on? if I come in earnest, I am sure to wear a pair of Bracelets; This may make some sport yet, I will deliver it, Here comes the President. _Enter_ Vertaign, _with two Gentlemen_. _Vert._ I shall find time, Gentlemen, To do your causes good, is not that _Cleremont_? _1 Gent._ 'Tis he my Lord. _Vert._ Why does he smile upon me? Am I become ridiculous? has your fortune, Sir, Upon my Son, made you contemn his Father? The glory of a Gentleman is fair bearing. _Cler._ Mistake me not my Lord, you shall not find that, I come with no blown Spirit to abuse you, I know your place and honour due unto it, The reverence to your silver Age and Vertue. _Vert._ Your face is merry still. _Cler._ So is my business, And I beseech your honour mistake me not, I have brought you from a wild or rather Mad-man As mad a piece of--you were wont to love mirth In your young days, I have known your Honour woo it, This may be made no little one, 'tis a Challenge, Sir, Nay, start not, I beseech you, it means you no harm, Nor any Man of Honour, or Understanding, 'Tis to steal from your serious hours a little laughter; I am bold to bring it to your Lordship. _Vert._ 'Tis to me indeed: Do they take me for a Sword-man at these years? _Cler._ 'Tis only worth your Honours Mirth, that's all Sir, 'Thad been in me else a sawcy rudeness. _Vert._ From one _La-writ_, a very punctual Challenge. _Cler._ But if your Lordship mark it, no great matter. _Vert._ I have known such a wrangling Advocate, Such a little figent thing; Oh I remember him, A notable talking Knave, now out upon him, Has challeng'd me downright, defied me mortally I do remember too, I cast his Causes. _Cler._ Why, there's the quarrel, Sir, the mortal quarrel. _Vert._ Why, what a Knave is this? as y'are a Gentleman, Is there no further purpose but meer mirth? What a bold Man of War! he invites me roundly. _Cler._ If there should be, I were no Gentleman, Nor worthy of the honour of my Kindred. And though I am sure your Lordship hates my Person, Which Time may bring again into your favour, Yet for the manners-- _Vert._ I am satisfied, You see, Sir, I have out-liv'd those days of fighting, And therefore cannot do him the honour to beat him my self; But I have a Kinsman much of his ability, His Wit and Courage, for this call him Fool, One that will spit as senseless fire as this Fellow. _Cler._ And such a man to undertake, my Lord? _Vert._ Nay he's too forward; these two pitch Barrels together. _Cler._ Upon my soul, no harm. _Vert._ It makes me smile, Why, what a stinking smother will they utter! Yes, he shall undertake, Sir, as my Champion, Since you propound it mirth, I'll venture on it, And shall defend my cause, but as y'are honest Sport not with bloud. _Cler._ Think not so basely, good Sir. _Vert._ A Squire shall wait upon you from my Kinsman, To morrow morning make you sport at full, You want no Subject; but no wounds. _Cler._ That's my care. _Ver._ And so good day. [_Ex._ Vertaign, _and Gentlemen_. _Cler._ Many unto your honour. This is a noble Fellow, of a sweet Spirit, Now must I think how to contrive this matter, For together they shall go. _Enter_ Dinant. _Din._ O _Cleremont_, I am glad I have found thee. _Cler._ I can tell thee rare things. _Din._ O, I can tell thee rarer, Dost thou love me? _Cler._ Love thee? _Din._ Dost thou love me dearly? Dar'st thou for my sake? _Cler._ Any thing that's honest. _Din._ Though it be dangerous? _Cler._ Pox o' dangerous. _Din._ Nay wondrous dangerous. _Cler._ Wilt thou break my heart? _Din._ Along with me then. _Cler._ I must part to morrow. _Din._ You shall, you shall, be faithful for this night, And thou hast made thy friend. _Cler._ Away, and talk not. [_Exeunt._ _Enter_ Lamira, _and Nurse_. _Lam._ O Nurse, welcome, where's _Dinant_? _Nurse._ He's at my back. 'Tis the most liberal Gentleman, this Gold He gave me for my pains, nor can I blame you, If you yield up the fort. _Lam._ How? yield it up? _Nurse._ I know not, he that loves, and gives so largely, And a young Lord to boot, or I am cozen'd, May enter every where. _Lam._ Thou'lt make me angry. _Enter_ Dinant, _and_ Cleremont. _Nur._ Why, if you are, I hope here's one will please you, Look on him with my Eyes, good luck go with you: Were I young for your sake-- _Din._ I thank thee, Nurse. _Nur._ I would be tractable, and as I am-- _Lam._ Leave the room, So old, and so immodest! and be careful, Since whispers will 'wake sleeping jealousies, That none disturb my Lord. [_Exit Nurse._ _Cler._ Will you dispatch? Till you come to the matter be not rapt thus, Walk in, walk in, I am your scout for once, You owe me the like service. _Din._ And will pay it. _Lam._ As you respect our lives, speak not so loud. _Cler._ Why, do it in dumb shew then, I am silenc'd. _Lam._ Be not so hasty, Sir, the golden Apples Had a fell Dragon for their Guard, your pleasures Are to be attempted with _Herculean_ danger, Or never to be gotten. _Din._ Speak the means. _Lam._ Thus briefly, my Lord sleeps now, and alas, Each Night, he only sleeps. _Cler._ Go, keep her stirring. _Lam._ Now if he 'wake, as sometimes he does, He only stretches out his hand and feels, Whether I am a bed, which being assur'd of, He sleeps again; but should he miss me, Valour Could not defend our lives. _Din._ What's to be done then? _Lam._ Servants have servile faiths, nor have I any That I dare trust; on noble _Cleremont_ We safely may rely. _Cler._ What man can do, Command and boldly. _Lam._ Thus then in my place, You must lye with my Lord. _Cler._ With an old man? Two Beards together, that's preposterous. _Lam._ There is no other way, and though 'tis dangerous, He having servants within call, and arm'd too, Slaves fed to act all that his jealousie And rage commands them, yet a true friend should not Check at the hazard of a life. _Cler._ I thank you, I love my friend, but know no reason why To hate my self; to be a kind of pander, You see I am willing, But to betray mine own throat you must pardon. _Din._ Then I am lost, and all my hopes defeated, Were I to hazard ten times more for you, You should find, _Cleremont_-- _Cler._ You shall not outdo me, Fall what may fall, I'll do't. _Din._ But for his Beard-- _Lam._ To cover that you shall have my night Linnen, And you dispos'd of, my _Dinant_ and I Will have some private conference. _Enter_ Champernel, _privately_. _Cler._ Private doing, Or I'll not venture. _Lam._ That's as we agree. [_Exeunt._ _Enter Nurse, and_ Charlotte, _pass over the Stage with Pillows, Night cloaths, and such things_. _Cham._ What can this Woman do, preserving her honour? I have given her all the liberty that may be, I will not be far off though, nor I will not be jealous, Nor trust too much, I think she is vertuous, Yet when I hold her best, she's but a Woman, As full of frailty as of faith, a poor sleight Woman, And her best thoughts, but weak fortifications, There may be a Mine wrought: Well, let 'em work then, I shall meet with it, till the signs be monstrous, And stick upon my head, I will not believe it, [_Stands private._ She may be, and she may not, now to my observation. _Enter_ Dinant, _and_ Lamira. _Din._ Why do you make me stay so? if you love me-- _Lam._ You are too hot and violent. _Din._ Why do you shift thus From one Chamber to another? _Lam._ A little delay, Sir, Like fire, a little sprinkled o'r with water Makes the desires burn clear, and ten times hotter. _Din._ Why do you speak so loud? I pray'e go in, Sweet Mistriss, I am mad, time steals away, And when we would enjoy-- _Lam._ Now fie, fie, Servant, Like sensual Beasts shall we enjoy our pleasures? _Din._ 'Pray do not kiss me then. _Lam._ Why, that I will, and you shall find anon, servant. _Din._ Softly, for heavens sake, you know my friend's engag'd, A little now, now; will ye go in again? _Lam._ Ha, ha, ha, ha. _Din._ Why do you laugh so loud, Precious? Will you betray me; ha' my friends throat cut? _Lam._ Come, come, I'll kiss thee again. _Cham._ Will you so? you are liberal, If you do cozen me-- _Enter Nurse with Wine._ _Din._ What's this? _Lam._ Wine, Wine, a draught or two. _Din._ What does this Woman here? _Lam._ She shall not hinder you. _Din._ This might have been spar'd, 'Tis but delay and time lost; pray send her softly off. _Lam._ Sit down, and mix your spirits with Wine, I will make you another _Hercules_. _Din._ I dare not drink; Fie, what delays you make! I dare not, I shall be drunk presently, and do strange things then. _Lam._ Not drink a cup with your Mistriss! O the pleasure. _Din._ Lady, why this? [_Musick._ _Lam._ We must have mirth to our Wine, Man. _Din._ Pl---- o' the Musick. _Champ._ God-a-mercy Wench, If thou dost cuckold me I shall forgive thee. _Din._ The house will all rise now, this will disturb all. Did you do this? _Lam._ Peace, and sit quiet, fool, You love me, come, sit down and drink. _Enter_ Cleremont _above_. _Cler._ What a Devil ail you? How cold I sweat! a hogs pox stop your pipes, [_Musick._ The thing will 'wake; now, now, methinks I find His Sword just gliding through my throat. What's that? A vengeance choak your pipes. Are you there, Lady? Stop, stop those Rascals; do you bring me hither To be cut into minced meat? why _Dinant_? _Din._ I cannot do withal; I have spoke, and spoke; I am betray'd and lost too. _Cler._ Do you hear me? do you understand me? 'Plague dam your Whistles. [_Musick ends._ _Lam._ 'Twas but an over-sight, they have done, lye down. _Cler._ Would you had done too, You know not In what a misery and fear I lye. You have a Lady in your arms. _Din._ I would have-- [_The Recorders again._ _Champ._ I'll watch you Goodman Wou'd have. _Cler._ Remove for Heavens sake, And fall to that you come for. _Lam._ Lie you down, 'Tis but an hours endurance now. _Cler._ I dare not, softly sweet Lady ----heart? _Lam._ 'Tis nothing but your fear, he sleeps still soundly, Lie gently down. _Cler._ 'Pray make an end. _Din._ Come, Madam. _Lam._ These Chambers are too near. [_Ex._ Din. Lam. _Cham._ I shall be nearer; Well, go thy wayes, I'le trust thee through the world, Deal how thou wilt: that that I never feel, I'le never fear. Yet by the honour of a Souldier, I hold thee truly noble: How these things will look, And how their blood will curdle! Play on Children, You shall have pap anon. O thou grand Fool, That thou knew'st but thy fortune-- [_Musick done._ _Cler._ Peace, good Madam, Stop her mouth, _Dinant_, it sleeps yet, 'pray be wary, Dispatch, I cannot endure this misery, I can hear nothing more; I'll say my prayers, And down again-- [_Whistle within._ A thousand Alarms fall upon my quarters, Heaven send me off; when I lye keeping Courses. Pl---- o' your fumbling, _Dinant_; how I shake! 'Tis still again: would I were in the _Indies_. [_Exit_ Cler. _Enter_ Dinant, _and_ Lamira: _a light within_. _Din._ Why do you use me thus? thus poorly? basely? Work me into a hope, and then destroy me? Why did you send for me? this new way train me? _Lam._ Mad-man, and fool, and false man, now I'll shew thee. _Din._ 'Pray put your light out. _Lam._ Nay I'll hold it thus, That all chaste Eyes may see thy lust, and scorn it. Tell me but this when you first doted on me, And made suit to enjoy me as your Wife, Did you not hold me honest? _Din._ Yes, most vertuous. _Lam._ And did not that appear the only lustre That made me worth your love and admiration? _Din._ I must confess-- _Lam._ Why would you deal so basely? So like a thief, a Villain? _Din._ Peace, good Madam. _Lam._ I'll speak aloud too; thus maliciously, Thus breaking all the Rules of honesty, Of honour and of truth, for which I lov'd you, For which I call'd you servant, and admir'd you; To steal that Jewel purchas'd by another, Piously set in Wedlock, even that Jewel, Because it had no flaw, you held unvaluable: Can he that has lov'd good, dote on the Devil? For he that seeks a Whore, seeks but his Agent; Or am I of so wild and low a blood? So nurs'd in infamies? _Din._ I do not think so, And I repent. _Lam._ That will not serve your turn, Sir. _Din._ It was your treaty drew me on. _Lam._ But it was your villany Made you pursue it; I drew you but to try How much a man, and nobly thou durst stand, How well you had deserv'd the name of vertuous; But you like a wild torrent, mix'd with all Beastly and base affections came floating on, Swelling your poyson'd billows-- _Din._ Will you betray me? _Lam._ To all the miseries a vext Woman may. _Din._ Let me but out, Give me but room to toss my Sword about me, And I will tell you y'are a treacherous woman, O that I had but words! _Lam._ They will not serve you. _Din._ But two-edg'd words to cut thee; a Lady traytor? Perish by a proud Puppet? I did you too much honour, To tender you my love, too much respected you To think you worthy of my worst embraces. Go take your Groom, and let him dally with you, Your greasie Groom; I scorn to imp your lame stock, You are not fair, nor handsome, I lyed loudly, This tongue abus'd you when it spoke you beauteous. _Lam._ 'Tis very well, 'tis brave. _Din._ Put out your light, Your lascivious eyes are flames enough For Fools to find you out; a Lady Plotter! Must I begin your sacrifice of mischief? I and my friend, the first-fruits of that bloud, You and your honourable Husband aim at? Crooked and wretched you are both. _Lam._ To you, Sir, Yet to the Eye of Justice straight as Truth. _Din._ Is this a womans love? a womans mercy? Do you profess this seriously? do you laugh at me? _Lam._ Ha, ha. _Din._ Pl---- light upon your scorns, upon your flatteries, Upon your tempting faces, all destructions; A bedrid winter hang upon your cheeks, And blast, blast, blast those buds of Pride that paint you; Death in your eyes to fright men from these dangers: Raise up your trophy, _Cleremont_. _Cler._ What a vengeance ail you? _Din._ What dismal noise! is there no honour in you? _Cleremont_, we are betrayed, betrayed, sold by a woman; Deal bravely for thy self. _Cler._ This comes of rutting; Are we made stales to one another? _Din._ Yes, we are undone, lost. _Cler._ You shall pay for't grey-beard. Up, up, you sleep your last else. {_Lights above, two Servants {and_ Anabel. _1 Serv._ No, not yet, Sir, Lady, look up, would you have wrong'd this Beauty? Wake so tender a Virgin with rough terms? You wear a Sword, we must entreat you leave it. _2 Serv._ Fye Sir, so sweet a Lady? _Cler._ Was this my bed-fellow, pray give me leave to look, I am not mad yet, I may be by and by. Did this lye by me? Did I fear this? is this a Cause to shake at? Away with me for shame, I am a Rascal. _Enter_ Champernel, Beaupre, Verdone, Lamira, Anabel, Cleremont, _and two Servants_. _Din._ I am amaz'd too. _Beaup._ We'll recover you. _Verd._ You walk like _Robin-good-fellow_ all the house over, And every man afraid of you. _Din._ 'Tis well, Lady; The honour of this deed will be your own, The world shall know your bounty. _Beaup._ What shall we do with 'em? _Cler._ Geld me, For 'tis not fit I should be a man again, I am an Ass, a Dog. _Lam._ Take your revenges, You know my Husbands wrongs and your own losses. _Anab._ A brave man, an admirable brave man; Well, well, I would not be so tryed again; A very handsome proper Gentleman. _Cler._ Will you let me lye by her but one hour more, And then hang me? _Din._ We wait your malice, put your swords home bravely, You have reason to seek bloud. _Lam._ Not as you are noble. _Cham._ Hands off, and give them liberty, only disarm 'em. _Beaup._ We have done that already. _Cham._ You are welcome, Gentlemen, I am glad my house has any pleasure for you, I keep a couple of Ladies here, they say fair, And you are young and handsome, Gentlemen; Have you any more mind to Wenches? _Cler._ To be abus'd too? Lady, you might have help'd this. _Ana._ Sir now 'tis past, but 't may be I may stand Your friend hereafter, in a greater matter. _Cler._ Never whilst you live. _Ana._ You cannot tell--now, Sir, a parting hand. _Cler._ Down and Roses: Well I may live to see you again. A dull Rogue, No revelation in thee. _Lam._ Were you well frighted? Were your fitts from the heart, of all colds and colours? That's all your punishment. _Cler._ It might have been all yours, Had not a block-head undertaken it. _Cham._ Your swords you must leave to these Gentlemen. _Verd._ And now, when you dare fight, We are on even Ice again. _Din._ 'Tis well: To be a Mistris, is to be a monster, And so I leave your house, and you for ever. _Lam._ Leave your wild lusts, and then you are a master. _Cham._ You may depart too. _Cler._ I had rather stay here. _Cham._ Faith we shall fright you worse. _Cler._ Not in that manner, There's five hundred Crowns, fright me but so again. _Din._ Come _Cleremont_, this is the hour of fool. _Cler._ Wiser the next shall be or we'll to School. [_Exeunt._ _Champ._ How coolly these hot gallants are departed! Faith Cousin, 'twas unconscionably done, To lye so still, and so long. _Anab._ 'Twas your pleasure, If 'twere a fault, I may hereafter mend. _Champ._ O my best Wife, Take now what course thou wilt, and lead what life. _Lam._ The more trust you commit, the more care still, Goodness and vertue shall attend my will. _Cham._ Let's laugh this night out now, and count our gains. We have our honours home, and they their pains. [_Exeunt omnes._ _Actus Quartus. Scena Prima._ _Enter_ Cleremont, Dinant. _Din._ It holds, they will go thither. _Cler._ To their Summer-house? _Din._ Thither i'th' evening, and which is the most infliction, Only to insult upon our miseries. _Cler._ Are you provided? _Din._ Yes, yes. _Cler._ Throughly? _Din._ Throughly. _Cler._ Basta, enough, I have your mind, I will not fail you. _Din._ At such an hour. _Cler._ Have I a memory? A Cause, and Will to do? thou art so sullen-- _Din._ And shall be, till I have a fair reparation. _Cler._ I have more reason, for I scaped a fortune, Which if I come so near again: I say nothing, But if I sweat not in another fashion-- O, a delicate Wench. _Din._ 'Tis certain a most handsome one. _Cler._ And me thought the thing was angry with it self too It lay so long conceal'd, but I must part with you, I have a scene of mirth, to drive this from my heart, And my hour is come. _Din._ Miss not your time. _Cler._ I dare not. [_Exeunt severally._ _Enter_ Sampson, _and a Gentleman_. _Gent._ I presume, Sir, you now need no instruction, But fairly know, what belongs to a Gentleman; You bear your Uncles cause. _Sam._ Do not disturb me, I understand my cause, and the right carriage. _Gent._ Be not too bloody. _Sam._ As I find my enemy; if his sword bite, If it bite, Sir, you must pardon me. _Gent._ No doubt he is valiant, He durst not undertake else, _Sam._ He's most welcome, As he is most valiant, he were no man for me else. _Gent._ But say he should relent. _Sam._ He dies relenting, I cannot help it, he must di[e] relenting, If he pray, praying, _ipso facto_, praying, Your honourable way admits no prayer, And if he fight, he falls, there's his _quietus_. _Gent._ Y'are nobly punctual, let's retire and meet 'em, But still, I say, have mercy. _Samp._ I say, honour. [_Exeunt._ _Enter_ Champernel, Lamira, Anabel, Beaupre, Verdone, Charlote _and a Servant_. _Lam._ Will not you go sweet-heart? _Champ._ Go? I'le fly with thee. I stay behind? _Lam._ My Father will be there too, And all our best friends. _Beau._ And if we be not merry, We have hard luck, Lady. _Verd._ Faith let's have a kind of play. _Cham._ What shall it be? _Verd._ The story of _Dinant_. _Lam._ With the merry conceits of _Cleremont_, His Fits and Feavers. _Ana._ But I'le lie still no more. _Lam._ That, as you make the Play, 'twill be rare sport, And how 'twill vex my gallants, when they hear it! Have you given order for the Coach? _Charl._ Yes, Madam. _Cham._ My easie Nag, and padd. _Serv._ 'Tis making ready. _Champ._ Where are your Horses? _Beau._ Ready at an hour, Sir: we'll not be last. _Cham._ Fie, what a night shall we have! A roaring, merry night. _Lam._ We'll flie at all, Sir. _Cham._ I'le flie at thee too, finely, and so ruffle thee, I'le try your Art upon a Country pallet. _Lam._ Brag not too much, for fear I should expect it, Then if you fail-- _Cham._ Thou saiest too true, we all talk.

loves

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

villain, (But yet no coward) and sollicites me To my dishonour, that's indeed a quarrel, And truly mine, which I will so revenge, As it shall fright such as dare only think To be adulterers. _Cham._ Use thine own waies, I give up all to thee. _Beau._ O women, women! When you are pleas'd you are the least of evils. _Verd._ I'le rime to't, but provokt, the worst of Devils. [_Exeunt._ _Enter Monsieur_ Sampson, _and three Clients_. _Samp._ I know Monsieur _La-writ_. _1 Cly._ Would he knew himself, Sir. _Samp._ He was a pretty Lawyer, a kind of pretty Lawyer, Of a kind of unable thing. _2 Cly._ A fine Lawyer, Sir, And would have firk'd you up a business, And out of this Court into that. _Samp._ Ye are too forward Not so fine my friends, something he could have done, But short short. _1 Cly._ I know your worships favour, You are Nephew to the Judge, Sir. _Samp._ It may be so, And something may be done, without trotting i'th' dirt, friends; It may be I can take him in his Chamber, And have an hours talk, it may be so, And tell him that in's ear; there are such courtesies; I will not say, I can. _3 Cly._ We know you can, Sir. _Sam._ Peradventure I, peradventure no: but where's _La-writ_? Where's your sufficient Lawyer? _1 Cly._ He's blown up, Sir. _2 Cly._ Run mad and quarrels with the Dog he meets; He is no Lawyer of this world now. _Sam._ Your reason? Is he defunct? is he dead? _2 Cly._ No he's not dead yet, Sir; But I would be loth to take a lease on's life for two hours: Alas, he is possest Sir, with the spirit of fighting And quarrels with all people; but how he came to it-- _Samp._ If he fight well and like a Gentleman, The man may fight, for 'tis a lawfull calling. Look you my friends, I am a civil Gentleman, And my Lord my Uncle loves me. _3 Cly._ We all know it, Sir. _Sam._ I think he does, Sir, I have business too, much business, Turn you some forty or fifty Causes in a week; Yet when I get an hour of vacancie, I can fight too my friends, a little does well, I would be loth to learn to fight. _1 Cly._ But and't please you Sir, His fighting has neglected all our business, We are undone, our causes cast away, Sir, His not appearance. _Sam._ There he fought too long, A little and fight well, he fought too long indeed friends; But ne'r the less things must be as they may, And there be wayes-- _1 Cly._ We know, Sir, if you please-- _Sam._ Something I'le do: goe rally up your Causes. _Enter_ La-writ, _and a_ Gentleman, _at the door_. _2 Cly._ Now you may behold Sir, And be a witness, whether we lie or no. _La-writ._ I'le meet you at the Ordinary, sweet Gentlemen, And if there be a wench or two-- _Gen._ We'll have 'em. _La-writ._ No handling any Duells before I come, We'll have no going else, I hate a coward. _Gent._ There shall be nothing done. _La-writ._ Make all the quarrels You can devise before I come, and let's all fight, There is no sport else. _Gent._ We'll see what may be done, Sir. _1 Cly._ Ha? Monsieur _La-writ_. _La-writ._ Baffled in way of business, My causes cast away, Judgement against us? Why there it goes. _2 Cly._ What shall we do the whilst Sir? _La-wr._ Breed new dissentions, goe hang your selves 'Tis all one to me; I have a new trade of living. _1 Cli._ Do you hear what he saies Sir? _Sam._ The Gentleman speaks finely. _La-wr._ Will any of you fight? Fighting's my occupation If you find your selves aggriev'd. _Sam._ A compleat Gentleman. _La-writ._ Avant thou buckram budget of petitions, Thou spittle of lame causes; I lament for thee, And till revenge be taken-- _Sam._ 'Tis most excellent. _La-wr._ There, every man chuse his paper, and his place. I'le answer ye all, I will neglect no mans business But he shall have satisfaction like a Gentleman, The Judge may do and not do, he's but a Monsieur. _Sam._ You have nothing of mine in your bag, Sir. _La-writ._ I know not Sir, But you may put any thing in, any fighting thing. _Sam._ It is sufficient, you may hear hereafter. _La-writ._ I rest your servant Sir. _Sam._ No more words Gentlemen But follow me, no more words as you love me, The Gentleman's a noble Gentleman. I shall do what I can, and then-- _Cli._ We thank you Sir. [_Ex._ Sam. _and_ Clients. _Sam._ Not a word to disturb him, he's a Gentleman. _La-writ._ No cause go o' my side? the judge cast all? And because I was honourably employed in action, And not appear'd, pronounce? 'tis very well, 'Tis well faith, 'tis well, Judge. _Enter_ Cleremont. _Cler._ Who have we here? My little furious Lawyer? _La-writ._ I say 'tis well, But mark the end. _Cler._ How he is metamorphos'd! Nothing of Lawyer left, not a bit of buckram, No solliciting face now, This is no simple conversion. Your servant Sir, and Friend. _La-writ._ You come in time, Sir, _Cler._ The happier man, to be at your command then. _La-writ._ You may wonder to see me thus; but that's all one, Time shall declare; 'tis true I was a Lawyer, But I have mew'd that coat, I hate a Lawyer, I talk'd much in the Court, now I hate talking, I did you the office of a man. _Cler._ I must confess it. _La-w._ And budg'd not, no I budg'd not. _Cler._ No, you did not. _La-w._ There's it then, one good turn requires another. _Cler._ Most willing Sir, I am ready at your service. _La-w._ There, read, and understand, and then deliver it. _Cler._ This is a Challenge, Sir, _La-w._ 'Tis very like, Sir, I seldom now write Sonnets. _Cler._ _O admirantis_, To Monsieur _Vertaign_, the President. _La-w._ I chuse no Fool, Sir. _Cler._ Why, he's no Sword-man, Sir. _La-w._ Let him learn, let him learn, Time, that trains Chickens up, will teach him quickly. _Cler._ Why, he's a Judge, an Old Man. _La-w._ Never too Old To be a Gentleman; and he that is a Judge Can judge best what belongs to wounded honour. There are my griefs, he has cast away my causes, In which he has bowed my reputation. And therefore Judge, or no Judge. _Cler._ 'Pray be rul'd Sir, This is the maddest thing-- _La-w._ You will not carry it. _Cler._ I do not tell you so, but if you may be perswaded. _La-w._ You know how you us'd me when I would not fight, Do you remember, Gentleman? _Cler._ The Devil's in him. _La-w._ I see it in your Eyes, that you dare do it, You have a carrying face, and you shall carry it. _Cler._ The least is Banishment. _La-w._ Be banish'd then; 'Tis a friends part, we'll meet in _Africa_, Or any part of the Earth. _Cler._ Say he will not fight. _La-w._ I know then what to say, take you no care, Sir, _Cler._ Well, I will carry it, and deliver it, And to morrow morning meet you in the Louver, Till when, my service. _La-w._ A Judge, or no Judge, no Judge. [_Exit_ La-writ. _Cler._ This is the prettiest Rogue that e'r I read of, None to provoke to th' field, but the old President; What face shall I put on? if I come in earnest, I am sure to wear a pair of Bracelets; This may make some sport yet, I will deliver it, Here comes the President. _Enter_ Vertaign, _with two Gentlemen_. _Vert._ I shall find time, Gentlemen, To do your causes good, is not that _Cleremont_? _1 Gent._ 'Tis he my Lord. _Vert._ Why does he smile upon me? Am I become ridiculous? has your fortune, Sir, Upon my Son, made you contemn his Father? The glory of a Gentleman is fair bearing. _Cler._ Mistake me not my Lord, you shall not find that, I come with no blown Spirit to abuse you, I know your place and honour due unto it, The reverence to your silver Age and Vertue. _Vert._ Your face is merry still. _Cler._ So is my business, And I beseech your honour mistake me not, I have brought you from a wild or rather Mad-man As mad a piece of--you were wont to love mirth In your young days, I have known your Honour woo it, This may be made no little one, 'tis a Challenge, Sir, Nay, start not, I beseech you, it means you no harm, Nor any Man of Honour, or Understanding, 'Tis to steal from your serious hours a little laughter; I am bold to bring it to your Lordship. _Vert._ 'Tis to me indeed: Do they take me for a Sword-man at these years? _Cler._ 'Tis only worth your Honours Mirth, that's all Sir, 'Thad been in me else a sawcy rudeness. _Vert._ From one _La-writ_, a very punctual Challenge. _Cler._ But if your Lordship mark it, no great matter. _Vert._ I have known such a wrangling Advocate, Such a little figent thing; Oh I remember him, A notable talking Knave, now out upon him, Has challeng'd me downright, defied me mortally I do remember too, I cast his Causes. _Cler._ Why, there's the quarrel, Sir, the mortal quarrel. _Vert._ Why, what a Knave is this? as y'are a Gentleman, Is there no further purpose but meer mirth? What a bold Man of War! he invites me roundly. _Cler._ If there should be, I were no Gentleman, Nor worthy of the honour of my Kindred. And though I am sure your Lordship hates my Person, Which Time may bring again into your favour, Yet for the manners-- _Vert._ I am satisfied, You see, Sir, I have out-liv'd those days of fighting, And therefore cannot do him the honour to beat him my self; But I have a Kinsman much of his ability, His Wit and Courage, for this call him Fool, One that will spit as senseless fire as this Fellow. _Cler._ And such a man to undertake, my Lord? _Vert._ Nay he's too forward; these two pitch Barrels together. _Cler._ Upon my soul, no harm. _Vert._ It makes me smile, Why, what a stinking smother will they utter! Yes, he shall undertake, Sir, as my Champion, Since you propound it mirth, I'll venture on it, And shall defend my cause, but as y'are honest Sport not with bloud. _Cler._ Think not so basely, good Sir. _Vert._ A Squire shall wait upon you from my Kinsman, To morrow morning make you sport at full, You want no Subject; but no wounds. _Cler._ That's my care. _Ver._ And so good day. [_Ex._ Vertaign, _and Gentlemen_. _Cler._ Many unto your honour. This is a noble Fellow, of a sweet Spirit, Now must I think how to contrive this matter, For together they shall go. _Enter_ Dinant. _Din._ O _Cleremont_, I am glad I have found thee. _Cler._ I can tell thee rare things. _Din._ O, I can tell thee rarer, Dost thou love me? _Cler._ Love thee? _Din._ Dost thou love me dearly? Dar'st thou for my sake? _Cler._ Any thing that's honest. _Din._ Though it be dangerous? _Cler._ Pox o' dangerous. _Din._ Nay wondrous dangerous. _Cler._ Wilt thou break my heart? _Din._ Along with me then. _Cler._ I must part to morrow. _Din._ You shall, you shall, be faithful for this night, And thou hast made thy friend. _Cler._ Away, and talk not. [_Exeunt._ _Enter_ Lamira, _and Nurse_. _Lam._ O Nurse, welcome, where's _Dinant_? _Nurse._ He's at my back. 'Tis the most liberal Gentleman, this Gold He gave me for my pains, nor can I blame you, If you yield up the fort. _Lam._ How? yield it up? _Nurse._ I know not, he that loves, and gives so largely, And a young Lord to boot, or I am cozen'd, May enter every where. _Lam._ Thou'lt make me angry. _Enter_ Dinant, _and_ Cleremont. _Nur._ Why, if you are, I hope here's one will please you, Look on him with my Eyes, good luck go with you: Were I young for your sake-- _Din._ I thank thee, Nurse. _Nur._ I would be tractable, and as I am-- _Lam._ Leave the room, So old, and so immodest! and be careful, Since whispers will 'wake sleeping jealousies, That none disturb my Lord. [_Exit Nurse._ _Cler._ Will you dispatch? Till you come to the matter be not rapt thus, Walk in, walk in, I am your scout for once, You owe me the like service. _Din._ And will pay it. _Lam._ As you respect our lives, speak not so loud. _Cler._ Why, do it in dumb shew then, I am silenc'd. _Lam._ Be not so hasty, Sir, the golden Apples Had a fell Dragon for their Guard, your pleasures Are to be attempted with _Herculean_ danger, Or never to be gotten. _Din._ Speak the means. _Lam._ Thus briefly, my Lord sleeps now, and alas, Each Night, he only sleeps. _Cler._ Go, keep her stirring. _Lam._ Now if he 'wake, as sometimes he does, He only stretches out his hand and feels, Whether I am a bed, which being assur'd of, He sleeps again; but should he miss me, Valour Could not defend our lives. _Din._ What's to be done then? _Lam._ Servants have servile faiths, nor have I any That I dare trust; on noble _Cleremont_ We safely may rely. _Cler._ What man can do, Command and boldly. _Lam._ Thus then in my place, You must lye with my Lord. _Cler._ With an old man? Two Beards together, that's preposterous. _Lam._ There is no other way, and though 'tis dangerous, He having servants within call, and arm'd too, Slaves fed to act all that his jealousie And rage commands them, yet a true friend should not Check at the hazard of a life. _Cler._ I thank you, I love my friend, but know no reason why To hate my self; to be a kind of pander, You see I am willing, But to betray mine own throat you must pardon. _Din._ Then I am lost, and all my hopes defeated, Were I to hazard ten times more for you, You should find, _Cleremont_-- _Cler._ You shall not outdo me, Fall what may fall, I'll do't. _Din._ But for his Beard-- _Lam._ To cover that you shall have my night Linnen, And you dispos'd of, my _Dinant_ and I Will have some private conference. _Enter_ Champernel, _privately_. _Cler._ Private doing, Or I'll not venture. _Lam._ That's as we agree. [_Exeunt._ _Enter Nurse, and_ Charlotte, _pass over the Stage with Pillows, Night cloaths, and such things_. _Cham._ What can this Woman do, preserving her honour? I have given her all the liberty that may be, I will not be far off though, nor I will not be jealous, Nor trust too much, I think she is vertuous, Yet when I hold her best, she's but a Woman, As full of frailty as of faith, a poor sleight Woman, And her best thoughts, but weak fortifications, There may be a Mine wrought: Well, let 'em work then, I shall meet with it, till the signs be monstrous, And stick upon my head, I will not believe it, [_Stands private._ She may be, and she may not, now to my observation. _Enter_ Dinant, _and_ Lamira. _Din._ Why do you make me stay so? if you love me-- _Lam._ You are too hot and violent. _Din._ Why do you shift thus From one Chamber to another? _Lam._ A little delay, Sir, Like fire, a little sprinkled o'r with water Makes the desires burn clear, and ten times hotter. _Din._ Why do you speak so loud? I pray'e go in, Sweet Mistriss, I am mad, time steals away, And when we would enjoy-- _Lam._ Now fie, fie, Servant, Like sensual Beasts shall we enjoy our pleasures? _Din._ 'Pray do not kiss me then. _Lam._ Why, that I will, and you shall find anon, servant. _Din._ Softly, for heavens sake, you know my friend's engag'd, A little now, now; will ye go in again? _Lam._ Ha, ha, ha, ha. _Din._ Why do you laugh so loud, Precious? Will you betray me; ha' my friends throat cut? _Lam._ Come, come, I'll kiss thee again. _Cham._ Will you so? you are liberal, If you do cozen me-- _Enter Nurse with Wine._ _Din._ What's this? _Lam._ Wine, Wine, a draught or two. _Din._ What does this Woman here? _Lam._ She shall not hinder you. _Din._ This might have been spar'd, 'Tis but delay and time lost; pray send her softly off. _Lam._ Sit down, and mix your spirits with Wine, I will make you another _Hercules_. _Din._ I dare not drink; Fie, what delays you make! I dare not, I shall be drunk presently, and do strange things then. _Lam._ Not drink a cup with your Mistriss! O the pleasure. _Din._ Lady, why this? [_Musick._ _Lam._ We must have mirth to our Wine, Man. _Din._ Pl---- o' the Musick. _Champ._ God-a-mercy Wench, If thou dost cuckold me I shall forgive thee. _Din._ The house will all rise now, this will disturb all. Did you do this? _Lam._ Peace, and sit quiet, fool, You love me, come, sit down and drink. _Enter_ Cleremont _above_. _Cler._ What a Devil ail you? How cold I sweat! a hogs pox stop your pipes, [_Musick._ The thing will 'wake; now, now, methinks I find His Sword just gliding through my throat. What's that? A vengeance choak your pipes. Are you there, Lady? Stop, stop those Rascals; do you bring me hither To be cut into minced meat? why _Dinant_? _Din._ I cannot do withal; I have spoke, and spoke; I am betray'd and lost too. _Cler._ Do you hear me? do you understand me? 'Plague dam your Whistles. [_Musick ends._ _Lam._ 'Twas but an over-sight, they have done, lye down. _Cler._ Would you had done too, You know not In what a misery and fear I lye. You have a Lady in your arms. _Din._ I would have-- [_The Recorders again._ _Champ._ I'll watch you Goodman Wou'd have. _Cler._ Remove for Heavens sake, And fall to that you come for. _Lam._ Lie you down, 'Tis but an hours endurance now. _Cler._ I dare not, softly sweet Lady ----heart? _Lam._ 'Tis nothing but your fear, he sleeps still soundly, Lie gently down. _Cler._ 'Pray make an end. _Din._ Come, Madam. _Lam._ These Chambers are too near. [_Ex._ Din. Lam. _Cham._ I shall be nearer; Well, go thy wayes, I'le trust thee through the world, Deal how thou wilt: that that I never feel, I'le never fear. Yet by the honour of a Souldier, I hold thee truly noble: How these things will look, And how their blood will curdle! Play on Children, You shall have pap anon. O thou grand Fool, That thou knew'st but thy fortune-- [_Musick done._ _Cler._ Peace, good Madam, Stop her mouth, _Dinant_, it sleeps yet, 'pray be wary, Dispatch, I cannot endure this misery, I can hear nothing more; I'll say my prayers, And down again-- [_Whistle within._ A thousand Alarms fall upon my quarters, Heaven send me off; when I lye keeping Courses. Pl---- o' your fumbling, _Dinant_; how I shake! 'Tis still again: would I were in the _Indies_. [_Exit_ Cler. _Enter_ Dinant, _and_ Lamira: _a light within_. _Din._ Why do you use me thus? thus poorly? basely? Work me into a hope, and then destroy me? Why did you send for me? this new way train me? _Lam._ Mad-man, and fool, and false man, now I'll shew thee. _Din._ 'Pray put your light out. _Lam._ Nay I'll hold it thus, That all chaste Eyes may see thy lust, and scorn it. Tell me but this when you first doted on me, And made suit to enjoy me as your Wife, Did you not hold me honest? _Din._ Yes, most vertuous. _Lam._ And did not that appear the only lustre That made me worth your love and admiration? _Din._ I must confess-- _Lam._ Why would you deal so basely? So like a thief, a Villain? _Din._ Peace, good Madam. _Lam._ I'll speak aloud too; thus maliciously, Thus breaking all the Rules of honesty, Of honour and of truth, for which I lov'd you, For which I call'd you servant, and admir'd you; To steal that Jewel purchas'd by another, Piously set in Wedlock, even that Jewel, Because it had no flaw, you held unvaluable: Can he that has lov'd good, dote on the Devil? For he that seeks a Whore, seeks but his Agent; Or am I of so wild and low a blood? So nurs'd in infamies? _Din._ I do not think so, And I repent. _Lam._ That will not serve your turn, Sir. _Din._ It was your treaty drew me on. _Lam._ But it was your villany Made you pursue it; I drew you but to try How much a man, and nobly thou durst stand, How well you had deserv'd the name of vertuous; But you like a wild torrent, mix'd with all Beastly and base affections came floating on, Swelling your poyson'd billows-- _Din._ Will you betray me? _Lam._ To all the miseries a vext Woman may. _Din._ Let me but out, Give me but room to toss my Sword about me, And I will tell you y'are a treacherous woman, O that I had but words! _Lam._ They will not serve you. _Din._ But two-edg'd words to cut thee; a Lady traytor? Perish by a proud Puppet? I did you too much honour, To tender you my love, too much respected you To think you worthy of my worst embraces. Go take your Groom, and let him dally with you, Your greasie Groom; I scorn to imp your lame stock, You are not fair, nor handsome, I lyed loudly, This tongue abus'd you when it spoke you beauteous. _Lam._ 'Tis very well, 'tis brave. _Din._ Put out your light, Your lascivious eyes are flames enough For Fools to find you out; a Lady Plotter! Must I begin your sacrifice of mischief? I and my friend, the first-fruits of that bloud, You and your honourable Husband aim at? Crooked and wretched you are both. _Lam._ To you, Sir, Yet to the Eye of Justice straight as Truth. _Din._ Is this a womans love? a womans mercy? Do you profess this seriously? do you laugh at me? _Lam._ Ha, ha. _Din._ Pl---- light upon your scorns, upon your flatteries, Upon your tempting faces, all destructions; A bedrid winter hang upon your cheeks, And blast, blast, blast those buds of Pride that paint you; Death in your eyes to fright men from these dangers: Raise up your trophy, _Cleremont_. _Cler._ What a vengeance ail you? _Din._ What dismal noise! is there no honour in you? _Cleremont_, we are betrayed, betrayed, sold by a woman; Deal bravely for thy self. _Cler._ This comes of rutting; Are we made stales to one another? _Din._ Yes, we are undone, lost. _Cler._ You shall pay for't grey-beard. Up, up, you sleep your last else. {_Lights above, two Servants {and_ Anabel. _1 Serv._ No, not yet, Sir, Lady, look up, would you have wrong'd this Beauty? Wake so tender a Virgin with rough terms? You wear a Sword, we must entreat you leave it. _2 Serv._ Fye Sir, so sweet a Lady? _Cler._ Was this my bed-fellow, pray give me leave to look, I am not mad yet, I may be by and by. Did this lye by me? Did I fear this? is this a Cause to shake at? Away with me for shame, I am a Rascal. _Enter_ Champernel, Beaupre, Verdone, Lamira, Anabel, Cleremont, _and two Servants_. _Din._ I am amaz'd too. _Beaup._ We'll recover you. _Verd._ You walk like _Robin-good-fellow_ all the house over, And every man afraid of you. _Din._ 'Tis well, Lady; The honour of this deed will be your own, The world shall know your bounty. _Beaup._ What shall we do with 'em? _Cler._ Geld me, For 'tis not fit I should be a man again, I am an Ass, a Dog. _Lam._ Take your revenges, You know my Husbands wrongs and your own losses. _Anab._ A brave man, an admirable brave man; Well, well, I would not be so tryed again; A very handsome proper Gentleman. _Cler._ Will you let me lye by her but one hour more, And then hang me? _Din._ We wait your malice, put your swords home bravely, You have reason to seek bloud. _Lam._ Not as you are noble. _Cham._ Hands off, and give them liberty, only disarm 'em. _Beaup._ We have done that already. _Cham._ You are welcome, Gentlemen, I am glad my house has any pleasure for you, I keep a couple of Ladies here, they say fair, And you are young and handsome, Gentlemen; Have you any more mind to Wenches? _Cler._ To be abus'd too? Lady, you might have help'd this. _Ana._ Sir now 'tis past, but 't may be I may stand Your friend hereafter, in a greater matter. _Cler._ Never whilst you live. _Ana._ You cannot tell--now, Sir, a parting hand. _Cler._ Down and Roses: Well I may live to see you again. A dull Rogue, No revelation in thee. _Lam._ Were you well frighted? Were your fitts from the heart, of all colds and colours? That's all your punishment. _Cler._ It might have been all yours, Had not a block-head undertaken it. _Cham._ Your swords you must leave to these Gentlemen. _Verd._ And now, when you dare fight, We are on even Ice again. _Din._ 'Tis well: To be a Mistris, is to be a monster, And so I leave your house, and you for ever. _Lam._ Leave your wild lusts, and then you are a master. _Cham._ You may depart too. _Cler._ I had rather stay here. _Cham._ Faith we shall fright you worse. _Cler._ Not in that manner, There's five hundred Crowns, fright me but so again. _Din._ Come _Cleremont_, this is the hour of fool. _Cler._ Wiser the next shall be or we'll to School. [_Exeunt._ _Champ._ How coolly these hot gallants are departed! Faith Cousin, 'twas unconscionably done, To lye so still, and so long. _Anab._ 'Twas your pleasure, If 'twere a fault, I may hereafter mend. _Champ._ O my best Wife, Take now what course thou wilt, and lead what life. _Lam._ The more trust you commit, the more care still, Goodness and vertue shall attend my will. _Cham._ Let's laugh this night out now, and count our gains. We have our honours home, and they their pains. [_Exeunt omnes._ _Actus Quartus. Scena Prima._ _Enter_ Cleremont, Dinant. _Din._ It holds, they will go thither. _Cler._ To their Summer-house? _Din._ Thither i'th' evening, and which is the most infliction, Only to insult upon our miseries. _Cler._ Are you provided? _Din._ Yes, yes. _Cler._ Throughly? _Din._ Throughly. _Cler._ Basta, enough, I have your mind, I will not fail you. _Din._ At such an hour. _Cler._ Have I a memory? A Cause, and Will to do? thou art so sullen-- _Din._ And shall be, till I have a fair reparation. _Cler._ I have more reason, for I scaped a fortune, Which if I come so near again: I say nothing, But if I sweat not in another fashion-- O, a delicate Wench. _Din._ 'Tis certain a most handsome one. _Cler._ And me thought the thing was angry with it self too It lay so long conceal'd, but I must part with you, I have a scene of mirth, to drive this from my heart, And my hour is come. _Din._ Miss not your time. _Cler._ I dare not. [_Exeunt severally._ _Enter_ Sampson, _and a Gentleman_. _Gent._ I presume, Sir, you now need no instruction, But fairly know, what belongs to a Gentleman; You bear your Uncles cause. _Sam._ Do not disturb me, I understand my cause, and the right carriage. _Gent._ Be not too bloody. _Sam._ As I find my enemy; if his sword bite, If it bite, Sir, you must pardon me. _Gent._ No doubt he is valiant, He durst not undertake else, _Sam._ He's most welcome, As he is most valiant, he were no man for me else. _Gent._ But say he should relent. _Sam._ He dies relenting, I cannot help it, he must di[e] relenting, If he pray, praying, _ipso facto_, praying, Your honourable way admits no prayer, And if he fight, he falls, there's his _quietus_. _Gent._ Y'are nobly punctual, let's retire and meet 'em, But still, I say, have mercy. _Samp._ I say, honour. [_Exeunt._ _Enter_ Champernel, Lamira, Anabel, Beaupre, Verdone, Charlote _and a Servant_. _Lam._ Will not you go sweet-heart? _Champ._ Go? I'le fly with thee. I stay behind? _Lam._ My Father will be there too, And all our best friends. _Beau._ And if we be not merry, We have hard luck, Lady. _Verd._ Faith let's have a kind of play. _Cham._ What shall it be? _Verd._ The story of _Dinant_. _Lam._ With the merry conceits of _Cleremont_, His Fits and Feavers. _Ana._ But I'le lie still no more. _Lam._ That, as you make the Play, 'twill be rare sport, And how 'twill vex my gallants, when they hear it! Have you given order for the Coach? _Charl._ Yes, Madam. _Cham._ My easie Nag, and padd. _Serv._ 'Tis making ready. _Champ._ Where are your Horses? _Beau._ Ready at an hour, Sir: we'll not be last. _Cham._ Fie, what a night shall we have! A roaring, merry night. _Lam._ We'll flie at all, Sir. _Cham._ I'le flie at thee too, finely, and so ruffle thee, I'le try your Art upon a Country pallet. _Lam._ Brag not too much, for fear I should expect it, Then if you fail-- _Cham._ Thou saiest too true, we all talk.

therefore

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

villain, (But yet no coward) and sollicites me To my dishonour, that's indeed a quarrel, And truly mine, which I will so revenge, As it shall fright such as dare only think To be adulterers. _Cham._ Use thine own waies, I give up all to thee. _Beau._ O women, women! When you are pleas'd you are the least of evils. _Verd._ I'le rime to't, but provokt, the worst of Devils. [_Exeunt._ _Enter Monsieur_ Sampson, _and three Clients_. _Samp._ I know Monsieur _La-writ_. _1 Cly._ Would he knew himself, Sir. _Samp._ He was a pretty Lawyer, a kind of pretty Lawyer, Of a kind of unable thing. _2 Cly._ A fine Lawyer, Sir, And would have firk'd you up a business, And out of this Court into that. _Samp._ Ye are too forward Not so fine my friends, something he could have done, But short short. _1 Cly._ I know your worships favour, You are Nephew to the Judge, Sir. _Samp._ It may be so, And something may be done, without trotting i'th' dirt, friends; It may be I can take him in his Chamber, And have an hours talk, it may be so, And tell him that in's ear; there are such courtesies; I will not say, I can. _3 Cly._ We know you can, Sir. _Sam._ Peradventure I, peradventure no: but where's _La-writ_? Where's your sufficient Lawyer? _1 Cly._ He's blown up, Sir. _2 Cly._ Run mad and quarrels with the Dog he meets; He is no Lawyer of this world now. _Sam._ Your reason? Is he defunct? is he dead? _2 Cly._ No he's not dead yet, Sir; But I would be loth to take a lease on's life for two hours: Alas, he is possest Sir, with the spirit of fighting And quarrels with all people; but how he came to it-- _Samp._ If he fight well and like a Gentleman, The man may fight, for 'tis a lawfull calling. Look you my friends, I am a civil Gentleman, And my Lord my Uncle loves me. _3 Cly._ We all know it, Sir. _Sam._ I think he does, Sir, I have business too, much business, Turn you some forty or fifty Causes in a week; Yet when I get an hour of vacancie, I can fight too my friends, a little does well, I would be loth to learn to fight. _1 Cly._ But and't please you Sir, His fighting has neglected all our business, We are undone, our causes cast away, Sir, His not appearance. _Sam._ There he fought too long, A little and fight well, he fought too long indeed friends; But ne'r the less things must be as they may, And there be wayes-- _1 Cly._ We know, Sir, if you please-- _Sam._ Something I'le do: goe rally up your Causes. _Enter_ La-writ, _and a_ Gentleman, _at the door_. _2 Cly._ Now you may behold Sir, And be a witness, whether we lie or no. _La-writ._ I'le meet you at the Ordinary, sweet Gentlemen, And if there be a wench or two-- _Gen._ We'll have 'em. _La-writ._ No handling any Duells before I come, We'll have no going else, I hate a coward. _Gent._ There shall be nothing done. _La-writ._ Make all the quarrels You can devise before I come, and let's all fight, There is no sport else. _Gent._ We'll see what may be done, Sir. _1 Cly._ Ha? Monsieur _La-writ_. _La-writ._ Baffled in way of business, My causes cast away, Judgement against us? Why there it goes. _2 Cly._ What shall we do the whilst Sir? _La-wr._ Breed new dissentions, goe hang your selves 'Tis all one to me; I have a new trade of living. _1 Cli._ Do you hear what he saies Sir? _Sam._ The Gentleman speaks finely. _La-wr._ Will any of you fight? Fighting's my occupation If you find your selves aggriev'd. _Sam._ A compleat Gentleman. _La-writ._ Avant thou buckram budget of petitions, Thou spittle of lame causes; I lament for thee, And till revenge be taken-- _Sam._ 'Tis most excellent. _La-wr._ There, every man chuse his paper, and his place. I'le answer ye all, I will neglect no mans business But he shall have satisfaction like a Gentleman, The Judge may do and not do, he's but a Monsieur. _Sam._ You have nothing of mine in your bag, Sir. _La-writ._ I know not Sir, But you may put any thing in, any fighting thing. _Sam._ It is sufficient, you may hear hereafter. _La-writ._ I rest your servant Sir. _Sam._ No more words Gentlemen But follow me, no more words as you love me, The Gentleman's a noble Gentleman. I shall do what I can, and then-- _Cli._ We thank you Sir. [_Ex._ Sam. _and_ Clients. _Sam._ Not a word to disturb him, he's a Gentleman. _La-writ._ No cause go o' my side? the judge cast all? And because I was honourably employed in action, And not appear'd, pronounce? 'tis very well, 'Tis well faith, 'tis well, Judge. _Enter_ Cleremont. _Cler._ Who have we here? My little furious Lawyer? _La-writ._ I say 'tis well, But mark the end. _Cler._ How he is metamorphos'd! Nothing of Lawyer left, not a bit of buckram, No solliciting face now, This is no simple conversion. Your servant Sir, and Friend. _La-writ._ You come in time, Sir, _Cler._ The happier man, to be at your command then. _La-writ._ You may wonder to see me thus; but that's all one, Time shall declare; 'tis true I was a Lawyer, But I have mew'd that coat, I hate a Lawyer, I talk'd much in the Court, now I hate talking, I did you the office of a man. _Cler._ I must confess it. _La-w._ And budg'd not, no I budg'd not. _Cler._ No, you did not. _La-w._ There's it then, one good turn requires another. _Cler._ Most willing Sir, I am ready at your service. _La-w._ There, read, and understand, and then deliver it. _Cler._ This is a Challenge, Sir, _La-w._ 'Tis very like, Sir, I seldom now write Sonnets. _Cler._ _O admirantis_, To Monsieur _Vertaign_, the President. _La-w._ I chuse no Fool, Sir. _Cler._ Why, he's no Sword-man, Sir. _La-w._ Let him learn, let him learn, Time, that trains Chickens up, will teach him quickly. _Cler._ Why, he's a Judge, an Old Man. _La-w._ Never too Old To be a Gentleman; and he that is a Judge Can judge best what belongs to wounded honour. There are my griefs, he has cast away my causes, In which he has bowed my reputation. And therefore Judge, or no Judge. _Cler._ 'Pray be rul'd Sir, This is the maddest thing-- _La-w._ You will not carry it. _Cler._ I do not tell you so, but if you may be perswaded. _La-w._ You know how you us'd me when I would not fight, Do you remember, Gentleman? _Cler._ The Devil's in him. _La-w._ I see it in your Eyes, that you dare do it, You have a carrying face, and you shall carry it. _Cler._ The least is Banishment. _La-w._ Be banish'd then; 'Tis a friends part, we'll meet in _Africa_, Or any part of the Earth. _Cler._ Say he will not fight. _La-w._ I know then what to say, take you no care, Sir, _Cler._ Well, I will carry it, and deliver it, And to morrow morning meet you in the Louver, Till when, my service. _La-w._ A Judge, or no Judge, no Judge. [_Exit_ La-writ. _Cler._ This is the prettiest Rogue that e'r I read of, None to provoke to th' field, but the old President; What face shall I put on? if I come in earnest, I am sure to wear a pair of Bracelets; This may make some sport yet, I will deliver it, Here comes the President. _Enter_ Vertaign, _with two Gentlemen_. _Vert._ I shall find time, Gentlemen, To do your causes good, is not that _Cleremont_? _1 Gent._ 'Tis he my Lord. _Vert._ Why does he smile upon me? Am I become ridiculous? has your fortune, Sir, Upon my Son, made you contemn his Father? The glory of a Gentleman is fair bearing. _Cler._ Mistake me not my Lord, you shall not find that, I come with no blown Spirit to abuse you, I know your place and honour due unto it, The reverence to your silver Age and Vertue. _Vert._ Your face is merry still. _Cler._ So is my business, And I beseech your honour mistake me not, I have brought you from a wild or rather Mad-man As mad a piece of--you were wont to love mirth In your young days, I have known your Honour woo it, This may be made no little one, 'tis a Challenge, Sir, Nay, start not, I beseech you, it means you no harm, Nor any Man of Honour, or Understanding, 'Tis to steal from your serious hours a little laughter; I am bold to bring it to your Lordship. _Vert._ 'Tis to me indeed: Do they take me for a Sword-man at these years? _Cler._ 'Tis only worth your Honours Mirth, that's all Sir, 'Thad been in me else a sawcy rudeness. _Vert._ From one _La-writ_, a very punctual Challenge. _Cler._ But if your Lordship mark it, no great matter. _Vert._ I have known such a wrangling Advocate, Such a little figent thing; Oh I remember him, A notable talking Knave, now out upon him, Has challeng'd me downright, defied me mortally I do remember too, I cast his Causes. _Cler._ Why, there's the quarrel, Sir, the mortal quarrel. _Vert._ Why, what a Knave is this? as y'are a Gentleman, Is there no further purpose but meer mirth? What a bold Man of War! he invites me roundly. _Cler._ If there should be, I were no Gentleman, Nor worthy of the honour of my Kindred. And though I am sure your Lordship hates my Person, Which Time may bring again into your favour, Yet for the manners-- _Vert._ I am satisfied, You see, Sir, I have out-liv'd those days of fighting, And therefore cannot do him the honour to beat him my self; But I have a Kinsman much of his ability, His Wit and Courage, for this call him Fool, One that will spit as senseless fire as this Fellow. _Cler._ And such a man to undertake, my Lord? _Vert._ Nay he's too forward; these two pitch Barrels together. _Cler._ Upon my soul, no harm. _Vert._ It makes me smile, Why, what a stinking smother will they utter! Yes, he shall undertake, Sir, as my Champion, Since you propound it mirth, I'll venture on it, And shall defend my cause, but as y'are honest Sport not with bloud. _Cler._ Think not so basely, good Sir. _Vert._ A Squire shall wait upon you from my Kinsman, To morrow morning make you sport at full, You want no Subject; but no wounds. _Cler._ That's my care. _Ver._ And so good day. [_Ex._ Vertaign, _and Gentlemen_. _Cler._ Many unto your honour. This is a noble Fellow, of a sweet Spirit, Now must I think how to contrive this matter, For together they shall go. _Enter_ Dinant. _Din._ O _Cleremont_, I am glad I have found thee. _Cler._ I can tell thee rare things. _Din._ O, I can tell thee rarer, Dost thou love me? _Cler._ Love thee? _Din._ Dost thou love me dearly? Dar'st thou for my sake? _Cler._ Any thing that's honest. _Din._ Though it be dangerous? _Cler._ Pox o' dangerous. _Din._ Nay wondrous dangerous. _Cler._ Wilt thou break my heart? _Din._ Along with me then. _Cler._ I must part to morrow. _Din._ You shall, you shall, be faithful for this night, And thou hast made thy friend. _Cler._ Away, and talk not. [_Exeunt._ _Enter_ Lamira, _and Nurse_. _Lam._ O Nurse, welcome, where's _Dinant_? _Nurse._ He's at my back. 'Tis the most liberal Gentleman, this Gold He gave me for my pains, nor can I blame you, If you yield up the fort. _Lam._ How? yield it up? _Nurse._ I know not, he that loves, and gives so largely, And a young Lord to boot, or I am cozen'd, May enter every where. _Lam._ Thou'lt make me angry. _Enter_ Dinant, _and_ Cleremont. _Nur._ Why, if you are, I hope here's one will please you, Look on him with my Eyes, good luck go with you: Were I young for your sake-- _Din._ I thank thee, Nurse. _Nur._ I would be tractable, and as I am-- _Lam._ Leave the room, So old, and so immodest! and be careful, Since whispers will 'wake sleeping jealousies, That none disturb my Lord. [_Exit Nurse._ _Cler._ Will you dispatch? Till you come to the matter be not rapt thus, Walk in, walk in, I am your scout for once, You owe me the like service. _Din._ And will pay it. _Lam._ As you respect our lives, speak not so loud. _Cler._ Why, do it in dumb shew then, I am silenc'd. _Lam._ Be not so hasty, Sir, the golden Apples Had a fell Dragon for their Guard, your pleasures Are to be attempted with _Herculean_ danger, Or never to be gotten. _Din._ Speak the means. _Lam._ Thus briefly, my Lord sleeps now, and alas, Each Night, he only sleeps. _Cler._ Go, keep her stirring. _Lam._ Now if he 'wake, as sometimes he does, He only stretches out his hand and feels, Whether I am a bed, which being assur'd of, He sleeps again; but should he miss me, Valour Could not defend our lives. _Din._ What's to be done then? _Lam._ Servants have servile faiths, nor have I any That I dare trust; on noble _Cleremont_ We safely may rely. _Cler._ What man can do, Command and boldly. _Lam._ Thus then in my place, You must lye with my Lord. _Cler._ With an old man? Two Beards together, that's preposterous. _Lam._ There is no other way, and though 'tis dangerous, He having servants within call, and arm'd too, Slaves fed to act all that his jealousie And rage commands them, yet a true friend should not Check at the hazard of a life. _Cler._ I thank you, I love my friend, but know no reason why To hate my self; to be a kind of pander, You see I am willing, But to betray mine own throat you must pardon. _Din._ Then I am lost, and all my hopes defeated, Were I to hazard ten times more for you, You should find, _Cleremont_-- _Cler._ You shall not outdo me, Fall what may fall, I'll do't. _Din._ But for his Beard-- _Lam._ To cover that you shall have my night Linnen, And you dispos'd of, my _Dinant_ and I Will have some private conference. _Enter_ Champernel, _privately_. _Cler._ Private doing, Or I'll not venture. _Lam._ That's as we agree. [_Exeunt._ _Enter Nurse, and_ Charlotte, _pass over the Stage with Pillows, Night cloaths, and such things_. _Cham._ What can this Woman do, preserving her honour? I have given her all the liberty that may be, I will not be far off though, nor I will not be jealous, Nor trust too much, I think she is vertuous, Yet when I hold her best, she's but a Woman, As full of frailty as of faith, a poor sleight Woman, And her best thoughts, but weak fortifications, There may be a Mine wrought: Well, let 'em work then, I shall meet with it, till the signs be monstrous, And stick upon my head, I will not believe it, [_Stands private._ She may be, and she may not, now to my observation. _Enter_ Dinant, _and_ Lamira. _Din._ Why do you make me stay so? if you love me-- _Lam._ You are too hot and violent. _Din._ Why do you shift thus From one Chamber to another? _Lam._ A little delay, Sir, Like fire, a little sprinkled o'r with water Makes the desires burn clear, and ten times hotter. _Din._ Why do you speak so loud? I pray'e go in, Sweet Mistriss, I am mad, time steals away, And when we would enjoy-- _Lam._ Now fie, fie, Servant, Like sensual Beasts shall we enjoy our pleasures? _Din._ 'Pray do not kiss me then. _Lam._ Why, that I will, and you shall find anon, servant. _Din._ Softly, for heavens sake, you know my friend's engag'd, A little now, now; will ye go in again? _Lam._ Ha, ha, ha, ha. _Din._ Why do you laugh so loud, Precious? Will you betray me; ha' my friends throat cut? _Lam._ Come, come, I'll kiss thee again. _Cham._ Will you so? you are liberal, If you do cozen me-- _Enter Nurse with Wine._ _Din._ What's this? _Lam._ Wine, Wine, a draught or two. _Din._ What does this Woman here? _Lam._ She shall not hinder you. _Din._ This might have been spar'd, 'Tis but delay and time lost; pray send her softly off. _Lam._ Sit down, and mix your spirits with Wine, I will make you another _Hercules_. _Din._ I dare not drink; Fie, what delays you make! I dare not, I shall be drunk presently, and do strange things then. _Lam._ Not drink a cup with your Mistriss! O the pleasure. _Din._ Lady, why this? [_Musick._ _Lam._ We must have mirth to our Wine, Man. _Din._ Pl---- o' the Musick. _Champ._ God-a-mercy Wench, If thou dost cuckold me I shall forgive thee. _Din._ The house will all rise now, this will disturb all. Did you do this? _Lam._ Peace, and sit quiet, fool, You love me, come, sit down and drink. _Enter_ Cleremont _above_. _Cler._ What a Devil ail you? How cold I sweat! a hogs pox stop your pipes, [_Musick._ The thing will 'wake; now, now, methinks I find His Sword just gliding through my throat. What's that? A vengeance choak your pipes. Are you there, Lady? Stop, stop those Rascals; do you bring me hither To be cut into minced meat? why _Dinant_? _Din._ I cannot do withal; I have spoke, and spoke; I am betray'd and lost too. _Cler._ Do you hear me? do you understand me? 'Plague dam your Whistles. [_Musick ends._ _Lam._ 'Twas but an over-sight, they have done, lye down. _Cler._ Would you had done too, You know not In what a misery and fear I lye. You have a Lady in your arms. _Din._ I would have-- [_The Recorders again._ _Champ._ I'll watch you Goodman Wou'd have. _Cler._ Remove for Heavens sake, And fall to that you come for. _Lam._ Lie you down, 'Tis but an hours endurance now. _Cler._ I dare not, softly sweet Lady ----heart? _Lam._ 'Tis nothing but your fear, he sleeps still soundly, Lie gently down. _Cler._ 'Pray make an end. _Din._ Come, Madam. _Lam._ These Chambers are too near. [_Ex._ Din. Lam. _Cham._ I shall be nearer; Well, go thy wayes, I'le trust thee through the world, Deal how thou wilt: that that I never feel, I'le never fear. Yet by the honour of a Souldier, I hold thee truly noble: How these things will look, And how their blood will curdle! Play on Children, You shall have pap anon. O thou grand Fool, That thou knew'st but thy fortune-- [_Musick done._ _Cler._ Peace, good Madam, Stop her mouth, _Dinant_, it sleeps yet, 'pray be wary, Dispatch, I cannot endure this misery, I can hear nothing more; I'll say my prayers, And down again-- [_Whistle within._ A thousand Alarms fall upon my quarters, Heaven send me off; when I lye keeping Courses. Pl---- o' your fumbling, _Dinant_; how I shake! 'Tis still again: would I were in the _Indies_. [_Exit_ Cler. _Enter_ Dinant, _and_ Lamira: _a light within_. _Din._ Why do you use me thus? thus poorly? basely? Work me into a hope, and then destroy me? Why did you send for me? this new way train me? _Lam._ Mad-man, and fool, and false man, now I'll shew thee. _Din._ 'Pray put your light out. _Lam._ Nay I'll hold it thus, That all chaste Eyes may see thy lust, and scorn it. Tell me but this when you first doted on me, And made suit to enjoy me as your Wife, Did you not hold me honest? _Din._ Yes, most vertuous. _Lam._ And did not that appear the only lustre That made me worth your love and admiration? _Din._ I must confess-- _Lam._ Why would you deal so basely? So like a thief, a Villain? _Din._ Peace, good Madam. _Lam._ I'll speak aloud too; thus maliciously, Thus breaking all the Rules of honesty, Of honour and of truth, for which I lov'd you, For which I call'd you servant, and admir'd you; To steal that Jewel purchas'd by another, Piously set in Wedlock, even that Jewel, Because it had no flaw, you held unvaluable: Can he that has lov'd good, dote on the Devil? For he that seeks a Whore, seeks but his Agent; Or am I of so wild and low a blood? So nurs'd in infamies? _Din._ I do not think so, And I repent. _Lam._ That will not serve your turn, Sir. _Din._ It was your treaty drew me on. _Lam._ But it was your villany Made you pursue it; I drew you but to try How much a man, and nobly thou durst stand, How well you had deserv'd the name of vertuous; But you like a wild torrent, mix'd with all Beastly and base affections came floating on, Swelling your poyson'd billows-- _Din._ Will you betray me? _Lam._ To all the miseries a vext Woman may. _Din._ Let me but out, Give me but room to toss my Sword about me, And I will tell you y'are a treacherous woman, O that I had but words! _Lam._ They will not serve you. _Din._ But two-edg'd words to cut thee; a Lady traytor? Perish by a proud Puppet? I did you too much honour, To tender you my love, too much respected you To think you worthy of my worst embraces. Go take your Groom, and let him dally with you, Your greasie Groom; I scorn to imp your lame stock, You are not fair, nor handsome, I lyed loudly, This tongue abus'd you when it spoke you beauteous. _Lam._ 'Tis very well, 'tis brave. _Din._ Put out your light, Your lascivious eyes are flames enough For Fools to find you out; a Lady Plotter! Must I begin your sacrifice of mischief? I and my friend, the first-fruits of that bloud, You and your honourable Husband aim at? Crooked and wretched you are both. _Lam._ To you, Sir, Yet to the Eye of Justice straight as Truth. _Din._ Is this a womans love? a womans mercy? Do you profess this seriously? do you laugh at me? _Lam._ Ha, ha. _Din._ Pl---- light upon your scorns, upon your flatteries, Upon your tempting faces, all destructions; A bedrid winter hang upon your cheeks, And blast, blast, blast those buds of Pride that paint you; Death in your eyes to fright men from these dangers: Raise up your trophy, _Cleremont_. _Cler._ What a vengeance ail you? _Din._ What dismal noise! is there no honour in you? _Cleremont_, we are betrayed, betrayed, sold by a woman; Deal bravely for thy self. _Cler._ This comes of rutting; Are we made stales to one another? _Din._ Yes, we are undone, lost. _Cler._ You shall pay for't grey-beard. Up, up, you sleep your last else. {_Lights above, two Servants {and_ Anabel. _1 Serv._ No, not yet, Sir, Lady, look up, would you have wrong'd this Beauty? Wake so tender a Virgin with rough terms? You wear a Sword, we must entreat you leave it. _2 Serv._ Fye Sir, so sweet a Lady? _Cler._ Was this my bed-fellow, pray give me leave to look, I am not mad yet, I may be by and by. Did this lye by me? Did I fear this? is this a Cause to shake at? Away with me for shame, I am a Rascal. _Enter_ Champernel, Beaupre, Verdone, Lamira, Anabel, Cleremont, _and two Servants_. _Din._ I am amaz'd too. _Beaup._ We'll recover you. _Verd._ You walk like _Robin-good-fellow_ all the house over, And every man afraid of you. _Din._ 'Tis well, Lady; The honour of this deed will be your own, The world shall know your bounty. _Beaup._ What shall we do with 'em? _Cler._ Geld me, For 'tis not fit I should be a man again, I am an Ass, a Dog. _Lam._ Take your revenges, You know my Husbands wrongs and your own losses. _Anab._ A brave man, an admirable brave man; Well, well, I would not be so tryed again; A very handsome proper Gentleman. _Cler._ Will you let me lye by her but one hour more, And then hang me? _Din._ We wait your malice, put your swords home bravely, You have reason to seek bloud. _Lam._ Not as you are noble. _Cham._ Hands off, and give them liberty, only disarm 'em. _Beaup._ We have done that already. _Cham._ You are welcome, Gentlemen, I am glad my house has any pleasure for you, I keep a couple of Ladies here, they say fair, And you are young and handsome, Gentlemen; Have you any more mind to Wenches? _Cler._ To be abus'd too? Lady, you might have help'd this. _Ana._ Sir now 'tis past, but 't may be I may stand Your friend hereafter, in a greater matter. _Cler._ Never whilst you live. _Ana._ You cannot tell--now, Sir, a parting hand. _Cler._ Down and Roses: Well I may live to see you again. A dull Rogue, No revelation in thee. _Lam._ Were you well frighted? Were your fitts from the heart, of all colds and colours? That's all your punishment. _Cler._ It might have been all yours, Had not a block-head undertaken it. _Cham._ Your swords you must leave to these Gentlemen. _Verd._ And now, when you dare fight, We are on even Ice again. _Din._ 'Tis well: To be a Mistris, is to be a monster, And so I leave your house, and you for ever. _Lam._ Leave your wild lusts, and then you are a master. _Cham._ You may depart too. _Cler._ I had rather stay here. _Cham._ Faith we shall fright you worse. _Cler._ Not in that manner, There's five hundred Crowns, fright me but so again. _Din._ Come _Cleremont_, this is the hour of fool. _Cler._ Wiser the next shall be or we'll to School. [_Exeunt._ _Champ._ How coolly these hot gallants are departed! Faith Cousin, 'twas unconscionably done, To lye so still, and so long. _Anab._ 'Twas your pleasure, If 'twere a fault, I may hereafter mend. _Champ._ O my best Wife, Take now what course thou wilt, and lead what life. _Lam._ The more trust you commit, the more care still, Goodness and vertue shall attend my will. _Cham._ Let's laugh this night out now, and count our gains. We have our honours home, and they their pains. [_Exeunt omnes._ _Actus Quartus. Scena Prima._ _Enter_ Cleremont, Dinant. _Din._ It holds, they will go thither. _Cler._ To their Summer-house? _Din._ Thither i'th' evening, and which is the most infliction, Only to insult upon our miseries. _Cler._ Are you provided? _Din._ Yes, yes. _Cler._ Throughly? _Din._ Throughly. _Cler._ Basta, enough, I have your mind, I will not fail you. _Din._ At such an hour. _Cler._ Have I a memory? A Cause, and Will to do? thou art so sullen-- _Din._ And shall be, till I have a fair reparation. _Cler._ I have more reason, for I scaped a fortune, Which if I come so near again: I say nothing, But if I sweat not in another fashion-- O, a delicate Wench. _Din._ 'Tis certain a most handsome one. _Cler._ And me thought the thing was angry with it self too It lay so long conceal'd, but I must part with you, I have a scene of mirth, to drive this from my heart, And my hour is come. _Din._ Miss not your time. _Cler._ I dare not. [_Exeunt severally._ _Enter_ Sampson, _and a Gentleman_. _Gent._ I presume, Sir, you now need no instruction, But fairly know, what belongs to a Gentleman; You bear your Uncles cause. _Sam._ Do not disturb me, I understand my cause, and the right carriage. _Gent._ Be not too bloody. _Sam._ As I find my enemy; if his sword bite, If it bite, Sir, you must pardon me. _Gent._ No doubt he is valiant, He durst not undertake else, _Sam._ He's most welcome, As he is most valiant, he were no man for me else. _Gent._ But say he should relent. _Sam._ He dies relenting, I cannot help it, he must di[e] relenting, If he pray, praying, _ipso facto_, praying, Your honourable way admits no prayer, And if he fight, he falls, there's his _quietus_. _Gent._ Y'are nobly punctual, let's retire and meet 'em, But still, I say, have mercy. _Samp._ I say, honour. [_Exeunt._ _Enter_ Champernel, Lamira, Anabel, Beaupre, Verdone, Charlote _and a Servant_. _Lam._ Will not you go sweet-heart? _Champ._ Go? I'le fly with thee. I stay behind? _Lam._ My Father will be there too, And all our best friends. _Beau._ And if we be not merry, We have hard luck, Lady. _Verd._ Faith let's have a kind of play. _Cham._ What shall it be? _Verd._ The story of _Dinant_. _Lam._ With the merry conceits of _Cleremont_, His Fits and Feavers. _Ana._ But I'le lie still no more. _Lam._ That, as you make the Play, 'twill be rare sport, And how 'twill vex my gallants, when they hear it! Have you given order for the Coach? _Charl._ Yes, Madam. _Cham._ My easie Nag, and padd. _Serv._ 'Tis making ready. _Champ._ Where are your Horses? _Beau._ Ready at an hour, Sir: we'll not be last. _Cham._ Fie, what a night shall we have! A roaring, merry night. _Lam._ We'll flie at all, Sir. _Cham._ I'le flie at thee too, finely, and so ruffle thee, I'le try your Art upon a Country pallet. _Lam._ Brag not too much, for fear I should expect it, Then if you fail-- _Cham._ Thou saiest too true, we all talk.

jealous

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

villain, (But yet no coward) and sollicites me To my dishonour, that's indeed a quarrel, And truly mine, which I will so revenge, As it shall fright such as dare only think To be adulterers. _Cham._ Use thine own waies, I give up all to thee. _Beau._ O women, women! When you are pleas'd you are the least of evils. _Verd._ I'le rime to't, but provokt, the worst of Devils. [_Exeunt._ _Enter Monsieur_ Sampson, _and three Clients_. _Samp._ I know Monsieur _La-writ_. _1 Cly._ Would he knew himself, Sir. _Samp._ He was a pretty Lawyer, a kind of pretty Lawyer, Of a kind of unable thing. _2 Cly._ A fine Lawyer, Sir, And would have firk'd you up a business, And out of this Court into that. _Samp._ Ye are too forward Not so fine my friends, something he could have done, But short short. _1 Cly._ I know your worships favour, You are Nephew to the Judge, Sir. _Samp._ It may be so, And something may be done, without trotting i'th' dirt, friends; It may be I can take him in his Chamber, And have an hours talk, it may be so, And tell him that in's ear; there are such courtesies; I will not say, I can. _3 Cly._ We know you can, Sir. _Sam._ Peradventure I, peradventure no: but where's _La-writ_? Where's your sufficient Lawyer? _1 Cly._ He's blown up, Sir. _2 Cly._ Run mad and quarrels with the Dog he meets; He is no Lawyer of this world now. _Sam._ Your reason? Is he defunct? is he dead? _2 Cly._ No he's not dead yet, Sir; But I would be loth to take a lease on's life for two hours: Alas, he is possest Sir, with the spirit of fighting And quarrels with all people; but how he came to it-- _Samp._ If he fight well and like a Gentleman, The man may fight, for 'tis a lawfull calling. Look you my friends, I am a civil Gentleman, And my Lord my Uncle loves me. _3 Cly._ We all know it, Sir. _Sam._ I think he does, Sir, I have business too, much business, Turn you some forty or fifty Causes in a week; Yet when I get an hour of vacancie, I can fight too my friends, a little does well, I would be loth to learn to fight. _1 Cly._ But and't please you Sir, His fighting has neglected all our business, We are undone, our causes cast away, Sir, His not appearance. _Sam._ There he fought too long, A little and fight well, he fought too long indeed friends; But ne'r the less things must be as they may, And there be wayes-- _1 Cly._ We know, Sir, if you please-- _Sam._ Something I'le do: goe rally up your Causes. _Enter_ La-writ, _and a_ Gentleman, _at the door_. _2 Cly._ Now you may behold Sir, And be a witness, whether we lie or no. _La-writ._ I'le meet you at the Ordinary, sweet Gentlemen, And if there be a wench or two-- _Gen._ We'll have 'em. _La-writ._ No handling any Duells before I come, We'll have no going else, I hate a coward. _Gent._ There shall be nothing done. _La-writ._ Make all the quarrels You can devise before I come, and let's all fight, There is no sport else. _Gent._ We'll see what may be done, Sir. _1 Cly._ Ha? Monsieur _La-writ_. _La-writ._ Baffled in way of business, My causes cast away, Judgement against us? Why there it goes. _2 Cly._ What shall we do the whilst Sir? _La-wr._ Breed new dissentions, goe hang your selves 'Tis all one to me; I have a new trade of living. _1 Cli._ Do you hear what he saies Sir? _Sam._ The Gentleman speaks finely. _La-wr._ Will any of you fight? Fighting's my occupation If you find your selves aggriev'd. _Sam._ A compleat Gentleman. _La-writ._ Avant thou buckram budget of petitions, Thou spittle of lame causes; I lament for thee, And till revenge be taken-- _Sam._ 'Tis most excellent. _La-wr._ There, every man chuse his paper, and his place. I'le answer ye all, I will neglect no mans business But he shall have satisfaction like a Gentleman, The Judge may do and not do, he's but a Monsieur. _Sam._ You have nothing of mine in your bag, Sir. _La-writ._ I know not Sir, But you may put any thing in, any fighting thing. _Sam._ It is sufficient, you may hear hereafter. _La-writ._ I rest your servant Sir. _Sam._ No more words Gentlemen But follow me, no more words as you love me, The Gentleman's a noble Gentleman. I shall do what I can, and then-- _Cli._ We thank you Sir. [_Ex._ Sam. _and_ Clients. _Sam._ Not a word to disturb him, he's a Gentleman. _La-writ._ No cause go o' my side? the judge cast all? And because I was honourably employed in action, And not appear'd, pronounce? 'tis very well, 'Tis well faith, 'tis well, Judge. _Enter_ Cleremont. _Cler._ Who have we here? My little furious Lawyer? _La-writ._ I say 'tis well, But mark the end. _Cler._ How he is metamorphos'd! Nothing of Lawyer left, not a bit of buckram, No solliciting face now, This is no simple conversion. Your servant Sir, and Friend. _La-writ._ You come in time, Sir, _Cler._ The happier man, to be at your command then. _La-writ._ You may wonder to see me thus; but that's all one, Time shall declare; 'tis true I was a Lawyer, But I have mew'd that coat, I hate a Lawyer, I talk'd much in the Court, now I hate talking, I did you the office of a man. _Cler._ I must confess it. _La-w._ And budg'd not, no I budg'd not. _Cler._ No, you did not. _La-w._ There's it then, one good turn requires another. _Cler._ Most willing Sir, I am ready at your service. _La-w._ There, read, and understand, and then deliver it. _Cler._ This is a Challenge, Sir, _La-w._ 'Tis very like, Sir, I seldom now write Sonnets. _Cler._ _O admirantis_, To Monsieur _Vertaign_, the President. _La-w._ I chuse no Fool, Sir. _Cler._ Why, he's no Sword-man, Sir. _La-w._ Let him learn, let him learn, Time, that trains Chickens up, will teach him quickly. _Cler._ Why, he's a Judge, an Old Man. _La-w._ Never too Old To be a Gentleman; and he that is a Judge Can judge best what belongs to wounded honour. There are my griefs, he has cast away my causes, In which he has bowed my reputation. And therefore Judge, or no Judge. _Cler._ 'Pray be rul'd Sir, This is the maddest thing-- _La-w._ You will not carry it. _Cler._ I do not tell you so, but if you may be perswaded. _La-w._ You know how you us'd me when I would not fight, Do you remember, Gentleman? _Cler._ The Devil's in him. _La-w._ I see it in your Eyes, that you dare do it, You have a carrying face, and you shall carry it. _Cler._ The least is Banishment. _La-w._ Be banish'd then; 'Tis a friends part, we'll meet in _Africa_, Or any part of the Earth. _Cler._ Say he will not fight. _La-w._ I know then what to say, take you no care, Sir, _Cler._ Well, I will carry it, and deliver it, And to morrow morning meet you in the Louver, Till when, my service. _La-w._ A Judge, or no Judge, no Judge. [_Exit_ La-writ. _Cler._ This is the prettiest Rogue that e'r I read of, None to provoke to th' field, but the old President; What face shall I put on? if I come in earnest, I am sure to wear a pair of Bracelets; This may make some sport yet, I will deliver it, Here comes the President. _Enter_ Vertaign, _with two Gentlemen_. _Vert._ I shall find time, Gentlemen, To do your causes good, is not that _Cleremont_? _1 Gent._ 'Tis he my Lord. _Vert._ Why does he smile upon me? Am I become ridiculous? has your fortune, Sir, Upon my Son, made you contemn his Father? The glory of a Gentleman is fair bearing. _Cler._ Mistake me not my Lord, you shall not find that, I come with no blown Spirit to abuse you, I know your place and honour due unto it, The reverence to your silver Age and Vertue. _Vert._ Your face is merry still. _Cler._ So is my business, And I beseech your honour mistake me not, I have brought you from a wild or rather Mad-man As mad a piece of--you were wont to love mirth In your young days, I have known your Honour woo it, This may be made no little one, 'tis a Challenge, Sir, Nay, start not, I beseech you, it means you no harm, Nor any Man of Honour, or Understanding, 'Tis to steal from your serious hours a little laughter; I am bold to bring it to your Lordship. _Vert._ 'Tis to me indeed: Do they take me for a Sword-man at these years? _Cler._ 'Tis only worth your Honours Mirth, that's all Sir, 'Thad been in me else a sawcy rudeness. _Vert._ From one _La-writ_, a very punctual Challenge. _Cler._ But if your Lordship mark it, no great matter. _Vert._ I have known such a wrangling Advocate, Such a little figent thing; Oh I remember him, A notable talking Knave, now out upon him, Has challeng'd me downright, defied me mortally I do remember too, I cast his Causes. _Cler._ Why, there's the quarrel, Sir, the mortal quarrel. _Vert._ Why, what a Knave is this? as y'are a Gentleman, Is there no further purpose but meer mirth? What a bold Man of War! he invites me roundly. _Cler._ If there should be, I were no Gentleman, Nor worthy of the honour of my Kindred. And though I am sure your Lordship hates my Person, Which Time may bring again into your favour, Yet for the manners-- _Vert._ I am satisfied, You see, Sir, I have out-liv'd those days of fighting, And therefore cannot do him the honour to beat him my self; But I have a Kinsman much of his ability, His Wit and Courage, for this call him Fool, One that will spit as senseless fire as this Fellow. _Cler._ And such a man to undertake, my Lord? _Vert._ Nay he's too forward; these two pitch Barrels together. _Cler._ Upon my soul, no harm. _Vert._ It makes me smile, Why, what a stinking smother will they utter! Yes, he shall undertake, Sir, as my Champion, Since you propound it mirth, I'll venture on it, And shall defend my cause, but as y'are honest Sport not with bloud. _Cler._ Think not so basely, good Sir. _Vert._ A Squire shall wait upon you from my Kinsman, To morrow morning make you sport at full, You want no Subject; but no wounds. _Cler._ That's my care. _Ver._ And so good day. [_Ex._ Vertaign, _and Gentlemen_. _Cler._ Many unto your honour. This is a noble Fellow, of a sweet Spirit, Now must I think how to contrive this matter, For together they shall go. _Enter_ Dinant. _Din._ O _Cleremont_, I am glad I have found thee. _Cler._ I can tell thee rare things. _Din._ O, I can tell thee rarer, Dost thou love me? _Cler._ Love thee? _Din._ Dost thou love me dearly? Dar'st thou for my sake? _Cler._ Any thing that's honest. _Din._ Though it be dangerous? _Cler._ Pox o' dangerous. _Din._ Nay wondrous dangerous. _Cler._ Wilt thou break my heart? _Din._ Along with me then. _Cler._ I must part to morrow. _Din._ You shall, you shall, be faithful for this night, And thou hast made thy friend. _Cler._ Away, and talk not. [_Exeunt._ _Enter_ Lamira, _and Nurse_. _Lam._ O Nurse, welcome, where's _Dinant_? _Nurse._ He's at my back. 'Tis the most liberal Gentleman, this Gold He gave me for my pains, nor can I blame you, If you yield up the fort. _Lam._ How? yield it up? _Nurse._ I know not, he that loves, and gives so largely, And a young Lord to boot, or I am cozen'd, May enter every where. _Lam._ Thou'lt make me angry. _Enter_ Dinant, _and_ Cleremont. _Nur._ Why, if you are, I hope here's one will please you, Look on him with my Eyes, good luck go with you: Were I young for your sake-- _Din._ I thank thee, Nurse. _Nur._ I would be tractable, and as I am-- _Lam._ Leave the room, So old, and so immodest! and be careful, Since whispers will 'wake sleeping jealousies, That none disturb my Lord. [_Exit Nurse._ _Cler._ Will you dispatch? Till you come to the matter be not rapt thus, Walk in, walk in, I am your scout for once, You owe me the like service. _Din._ And will pay it. _Lam._ As you respect our lives, speak not so loud. _Cler._ Why, do it in dumb shew then, I am silenc'd. _Lam._ Be not so hasty, Sir, the golden Apples Had a fell Dragon for their Guard, your pleasures Are to be attempted with _Herculean_ danger, Or never to be gotten. _Din._ Speak the means. _Lam._ Thus briefly, my Lord sleeps now, and alas, Each Night, he only sleeps. _Cler._ Go, keep her stirring. _Lam._ Now if he 'wake, as sometimes he does, He only stretches out his hand and feels, Whether I am a bed, which being assur'd of, He sleeps again; but should he miss me, Valour Could not defend our lives. _Din._ What's to be done then? _Lam._ Servants have servile faiths, nor have I any That I dare trust; on noble _Cleremont_ We safely may rely. _Cler._ What man can do, Command and boldly. _Lam._ Thus then in my place, You must lye with my Lord. _Cler._ With an old man? Two Beards together, that's preposterous. _Lam._ There is no other way, and though 'tis dangerous, He having servants within call, and arm'd too, Slaves fed to act all that his jealousie And rage commands them, yet a true friend should not Check at the hazard of a life. _Cler._ I thank you, I love my friend, but know no reason why To hate my self; to be a kind of pander, You see I am willing, But to betray mine own throat you must pardon. _Din._ Then I am lost, and all my hopes defeated, Were I to hazard ten times more for you, You should find, _Cleremont_-- _Cler._ You shall not outdo me, Fall what may fall, I'll do't. _Din._ But for his Beard-- _Lam._ To cover that you shall have my night Linnen, And you dispos'd of, my _Dinant_ and I Will have some private conference. _Enter_ Champernel, _privately_. _Cler._ Private doing, Or I'll not venture. _Lam._ That's as we agree. [_Exeunt._ _Enter Nurse, and_ Charlotte, _pass over the Stage with Pillows, Night cloaths, and such things_. _Cham._ What can this Woman do, preserving her honour? I have given her all the liberty that may be, I will not be far off though, nor I will not be jealous, Nor trust too much, I think she is vertuous, Yet when I hold her best, she's but a Woman, As full of frailty as of faith, a poor sleight Woman, And her best thoughts, but weak fortifications, There may be a Mine wrought: Well, let 'em work then, I shall meet with it, till the signs be monstrous, And stick upon my head, I will not believe it, [_Stands private._ She may be, and she may not, now to my observation. _Enter_ Dinant, _and_ Lamira. _Din._ Why do you make me stay so? if you love me-- _Lam._ You are too hot and violent. _Din._ Why do you shift thus From one Chamber to another? _Lam._ A little delay, Sir, Like fire, a little sprinkled o'r with water Makes the desires burn clear, and ten times hotter. _Din._ Why do you speak so loud? I pray'e go in, Sweet Mistriss, I am mad, time steals away, And when we would enjoy-- _Lam._ Now fie, fie, Servant, Like sensual Beasts shall we enjoy our pleasures? _Din._ 'Pray do not kiss me then. _Lam._ Why, that I will, and you shall find anon, servant. _Din._ Softly, for heavens sake, you know my friend's engag'd, A little now, now; will ye go in again? _Lam._ Ha, ha, ha, ha. _Din._ Why do you laugh so loud, Precious? Will you betray me; ha' my friends throat cut? _Lam._ Come, come, I'll kiss thee again. _Cham._ Will you so? you are liberal, If you do cozen me-- _Enter Nurse with Wine._ _Din._ What's this? _Lam._ Wine, Wine, a draught or two. _Din._ What does this Woman here? _Lam._ She shall not hinder you. _Din._ This might have been spar'd, 'Tis but delay and time lost; pray send her softly off. _Lam._ Sit down, and mix your spirits with Wine, I will make you another _Hercules_. _Din._ I dare not drink; Fie, what delays you make! I dare not, I shall be drunk presently, and do strange things then. _Lam._ Not drink a cup with your Mistriss! O the pleasure. _Din._ Lady, why this? [_Musick._ _Lam._ We must have mirth to our Wine, Man. _Din._ Pl---- o' the Musick. _Champ._ God-a-mercy Wench, If thou dost cuckold me I shall forgive thee. _Din._ The house will all rise now, this will disturb all. Did you do this? _Lam._ Peace, and sit quiet, fool, You love me, come, sit down and drink. _Enter_ Cleremont _above_. _Cler._ What a Devil ail you? How cold I sweat! a hogs pox stop your pipes, [_Musick._ The thing will 'wake; now, now, methinks I find His Sword just gliding through my throat. What's that? A vengeance choak your pipes. Are you there, Lady? Stop, stop those Rascals; do you bring me hither To be cut into minced meat? why _Dinant_? _Din._ I cannot do withal; I have spoke, and spoke; I am betray'd and lost too. _Cler._ Do you hear me? do you understand me? 'Plague dam your Whistles. [_Musick ends._ _Lam._ 'Twas but an over-sight, they have done, lye down. _Cler._ Would you had done too, You know not In what a misery and fear I lye. You have a Lady in your arms. _Din._ I would have-- [_The Recorders again._ _Champ._ I'll watch you Goodman Wou'd have. _Cler._ Remove for Heavens sake, And fall to that you come for. _Lam._ Lie you down, 'Tis but an hours endurance now. _Cler._ I dare not, softly sweet Lady ----heart? _Lam._ 'Tis nothing but your fear, he sleeps still soundly, Lie gently down. _Cler._ 'Pray make an end. _Din._ Come, Madam. _Lam._ These Chambers are too near. [_Ex._ Din. Lam. _Cham._ I shall be nearer; Well, go thy wayes, I'le trust thee through the world, Deal how thou wilt: that that I never feel, I'le never fear. Yet by the honour of a Souldier, I hold thee truly noble: How these things will look, And how their blood will curdle! Play on Children, You shall have pap anon. O thou grand Fool, That thou knew'st but thy fortune-- [_Musick done._ _Cler._ Peace, good Madam, Stop her mouth, _Dinant_, it sleeps yet, 'pray be wary, Dispatch, I cannot endure this misery, I can hear nothing more; I'll say my prayers, And down again-- [_Whistle within._ A thousand Alarms fall upon my quarters, Heaven send me off; when I lye keeping Courses. Pl---- o' your fumbling, _Dinant_; how I shake! 'Tis still again: would I were in the _Indies_. [_Exit_ Cler. _Enter_ Dinant, _and_ Lamira: _a light within_. _Din._ Why do you use me thus? thus poorly? basely? Work me into a hope, and then destroy me? Why did you send for me? this new way train me? _Lam._ Mad-man, and fool, and false man, now I'll shew thee. _Din._ 'Pray put your light out. _Lam._ Nay I'll hold it thus, That all chaste Eyes may see thy lust, and scorn it. Tell me but this when you first doted on me, And made suit to enjoy me as your Wife, Did you not hold me honest? _Din._ Yes, most vertuous. _Lam._ And did not that appear the only lustre That made me worth your love and admiration? _Din._ I must confess-- _Lam._ Why would you deal so basely? So like a thief, a Villain? _Din._ Peace, good Madam. _Lam._ I'll speak aloud too; thus maliciously, Thus breaking all the Rules of honesty, Of honour and of truth, for which I lov'd you, For which I call'd you servant, and admir'd you; To steal that Jewel purchas'd by another, Piously set in Wedlock, even that Jewel, Because it had no flaw, you held unvaluable: Can he that has lov'd good, dote on the Devil? For he that seeks a Whore, seeks but his Agent; Or am I of so wild and low a blood? So nurs'd in infamies? _Din._ I do not think so, And I repent. _Lam._ That will not serve your turn, Sir. _Din._ It was your treaty drew me on. _Lam._ But it was your villany Made you pursue it; I drew you but to try How much a man, and nobly thou durst stand, How well you had deserv'd the name of vertuous; But you like a wild torrent, mix'd with all Beastly and base affections came floating on, Swelling your poyson'd billows-- _Din._ Will you betray me? _Lam._ To all the miseries a vext Woman may. _Din._ Let me but out, Give me but room to toss my Sword about me, And I will tell you y'are a treacherous woman, O that I had but words! _Lam._ They will not serve you. _Din._ But two-edg'd words to cut thee; a Lady traytor? Perish by a proud Puppet? I did you too much honour, To tender you my love, too much respected you To think you worthy of my worst embraces. Go take your Groom, and let him dally with you, Your greasie Groom; I scorn to imp your lame stock, You are not fair, nor handsome, I lyed loudly, This tongue abus'd you when it spoke you beauteous. _Lam._ 'Tis very well, 'tis brave. _Din._ Put out your light, Your lascivious eyes are flames enough For Fools to find you out; a Lady Plotter! Must I begin your sacrifice of mischief? I and my friend, the first-fruits of that bloud, You and your honourable Husband aim at? Crooked and wretched you are both. _Lam._ To you, Sir, Yet to the Eye of Justice straight as Truth. _Din._ Is this a womans love? a womans mercy? Do you profess this seriously? do you laugh at me? _Lam._ Ha, ha. _Din._ Pl---- light upon your scorns, upon your flatteries, Upon your tempting faces, all destructions; A bedrid winter hang upon your cheeks, And blast, blast, blast those buds of Pride that paint you; Death in your eyes to fright men from these dangers: Raise up your trophy, _Cleremont_. _Cler._ What a vengeance ail you? _Din._ What dismal noise! is there no honour in you? _Cleremont_, we are betrayed, betrayed, sold by a woman; Deal bravely for thy self. _Cler._ This comes of rutting; Are we made stales to one another? _Din._ Yes, we are undone, lost. _Cler._ You shall pay for't grey-beard. Up, up, you sleep your last else. {_Lights above, two Servants {and_ Anabel. _1 Serv._ No, not yet, Sir, Lady, look up, would you have wrong'd this Beauty? Wake so tender a Virgin with rough terms? You wear a Sword, we must entreat you leave it. _2 Serv._ Fye Sir, so sweet a Lady? _Cler._ Was this my bed-fellow, pray give me leave to look, I am not mad yet, I may be by and by. Did this lye by me? Did I fear this? is this a Cause to shake at? Away with me for shame, I am a Rascal. _Enter_ Champernel, Beaupre, Verdone, Lamira, Anabel, Cleremont, _and two Servants_. _Din._ I am amaz'd too. _Beaup._ We'll recover you. _Verd._ You walk like _Robin-good-fellow_ all the house over, And every man afraid of you. _Din._ 'Tis well, Lady; The honour of this deed will be your own, The world shall know your bounty. _Beaup._ What shall we do with 'em? _Cler._ Geld me, For 'tis not fit I should be a man again, I am an Ass, a Dog. _Lam._ Take your revenges, You know my Husbands wrongs and your own losses. _Anab._ A brave man, an admirable brave man; Well, well, I would not be so tryed again; A very handsome proper Gentleman. _Cler._ Will you let me lye by her but one hour more, And then hang me? _Din._ We wait your malice, put your swords home bravely, You have reason to seek bloud. _Lam._ Not as you are noble. _Cham._ Hands off, and give them liberty, only disarm 'em. _Beaup._ We have done that already. _Cham._ You are welcome, Gentlemen, I am glad my house has any pleasure for you, I keep a couple of Ladies here, they say fair, And you are young and handsome, Gentlemen; Have you any more mind to Wenches? _Cler._ To be abus'd too? Lady, you might have help'd this. _Ana._ Sir now 'tis past, but 't may be I may stand Your friend hereafter, in a greater matter. _Cler._ Never whilst you live. _Ana._ You cannot tell--now, Sir, a parting hand. _Cler._ Down and Roses: Well I may live to see you again. A dull Rogue, No revelation in thee. _Lam._ Were you well frighted? Were your fitts from the heart, of all colds and colours? That's all your punishment. _Cler._ It might have been all yours, Had not a block-head undertaken it. _Cham._ Your swords you must leave to these Gentlemen. _Verd._ And now, when you dare fight, We are on even Ice again. _Din._ 'Tis well: To be a Mistris, is to be a monster, And so I leave your house, and you for ever. _Lam._ Leave your wild lusts, and then you are a master. _Cham._ You may depart too. _Cler._ I had rather stay here. _Cham._ Faith we shall fright you worse. _Cler._ Not in that manner, There's five hundred Crowns, fright me but so again. _Din._ Come _Cleremont_, this is the hour of fool. _Cler._ Wiser the next shall be or we'll to School. [_Exeunt._ _Champ._ How coolly these hot gallants are departed! Faith Cousin, 'twas unconscionably done, To lye so still, and so long. _Anab._ 'Twas your pleasure, If 'twere a fault, I may hereafter mend. _Champ._ O my best Wife, Take now what course thou wilt, and lead what life. _Lam._ The more trust you commit, the more care still, Goodness and vertue shall attend my will. _Cham._ Let's laugh this night out now, and count our gains. We have our honours home, and they their pains. [_Exeunt omnes._ _Actus Quartus. Scena Prima._ _Enter_ Cleremont, Dinant. _Din._ It holds, they will go thither. _Cler._ To their Summer-house? _Din._ Thither i'th' evening, and which is the most infliction, Only to insult upon our miseries. _Cler._ Are you provided? _Din._ Yes, yes. _Cler._ Throughly? _Din._ Throughly. _Cler._ Basta, enough, I have your mind, I will not fail you. _Din._ At such an hour. _Cler._ Have I a memory? A Cause, and Will to do? thou art so sullen-- _Din._ And shall be, till I have a fair reparation. _Cler._ I have more reason, for I scaped a fortune, Which if I come so near again: I say nothing, But if I sweat not in another fashion-- O, a delicate Wench. _Din._ 'Tis certain a most handsome one. _Cler._ And me thought the thing was angry with it self too It lay so long conceal'd, but I must part with you, I have a scene of mirth, to drive this from my heart, And my hour is come. _Din._ Miss not your time. _Cler._ I dare not. [_Exeunt severally._ _Enter_ Sampson, _and a Gentleman_. _Gent._ I presume, Sir, you now need no instruction, But fairly know, what belongs to a Gentleman; You bear your Uncles cause. _Sam._ Do not disturb me, I understand my cause, and the right carriage. _Gent._ Be not too bloody. _Sam._ As I find my enemy; if his sword bite, If it bite, Sir, you must pardon me. _Gent._ No doubt he is valiant, He durst not undertake else, _Sam._ He's most welcome, As he is most valiant, he were no man for me else. _Gent._ But say he should relent. _Sam._ He dies relenting, I cannot help it, he must di[e] relenting, If he pray, praying, _ipso facto_, praying, Your honourable way admits no prayer, And if he fight, he falls, there's his _quietus_. _Gent._ Y'are nobly punctual, let's retire and meet 'em, But still, I say, have mercy. _Samp._ I say, honour. [_Exeunt._ _Enter_ Champernel, Lamira, Anabel, Beaupre, Verdone, Charlote _and a Servant_. _Lam._ Will not you go sweet-heart? _Champ._ Go? I'le fly with thee. I stay behind? _Lam._ My Father will be there too, And all our best friends. _Beau._ And if we be not merry, We have hard luck, Lady. _Verd._ Faith let's have a kind of play. _Cham._ What shall it be? _Verd._ The story of _Dinant_. _Lam._ With the merry conceits of _Cleremont_, His Fits and Feavers. _Ana._ But I'le lie still no more. _Lam._ That, as you make the Play, 'twill be rare sport, And how 'twill vex my gallants, when they hear it! Have you given order for the Coach? _Charl._ Yes, Madam. _Cham._ My easie Nag, and padd. _Serv._ 'Tis making ready. _Champ._ Where are your Horses? _Beau._ Ready at an hour, Sir: we'll not be last. _Cham._ Fie, what a night shall we have! A roaring, merry night. _Lam._ We'll flie at all, Sir. _Cham._ I'le flie at thee too, finely, and so ruffle thee, I'le try your Art upon a Country pallet. _Lam._ Brag not too much, for fear I should expect it, Then if you fail-- _Cham._ Thou saiest too true, we all talk.

alas

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

villain, (But yet no coward) and sollicites me To my dishonour, that's indeed a quarrel, And truly mine, which I will so revenge, As it shall fright such as dare only think To be adulterers. _Cham._ Use thine own waies, I give up all to thee. _Beau._ O women, women! When you are pleas'd you are the least of evils. _Verd._ I'le rime to't, but provokt, the worst of Devils. [_Exeunt._ _Enter Monsieur_ Sampson, _and three Clients_. _Samp._ I know Monsieur _La-writ_. _1 Cly._ Would he knew himself, Sir. _Samp._ He was a pretty Lawyer, a kind of pretty Lawyer, Of a kind of unable thing. _2 Cly._ A fine Lawyer, Sir, And would have firk'd you up a business, And out of this Court into that. _Samp._ Ye are too forward Not so fine my friends, something he could have done, But short short. _1 Cly._ I know your worships favour, You are Nephew to the Judge, Sir. _Samp._ It may be so, And something may be done, without trotting i'th' dirt, friends; It may be I can take him in his Chamber, And have an hours talk, it may be so, And tell him that in's ear; there are such courtesies; I will not say, I can. _3 Cly._ We know you can, Sir. _Sam._ Peradventure I, peradventure no: but where's _La-writ_? Where's your sufficient Lawyer? _1 Cly._ He's blown up, Sir. _2 Cly._ Run mad and quarrels with the Dog he meets; He is no Lawyer of this world now. _Sam._ Your reason? Is he defunct? is he dead? _2 Cly._ No he's not dead yet, Sir; But I would be loth to take a lease on's life for two hours: Alas, he is possest Sir, with the spirit of fighting And quarrels with all people; but how he came to it-- _Samp._ If he fight well and like a Gentleman, The man may fight, for 'tis a lawfull calling. Look you my friends, I am a civil Gentleman, And my Lord my Uncle loves me. _3 Cly._ We all know it, Sir. _Sam._ I think he does, Sir, I have business too, much business, Turn you some forty or fifty Causes in a week; Yet when I get an hour of vacancie, I can fight too my friends, a little does well, I would be loth to learn to fight. _1 Cly._ But and't please you Sir, His fighting has neglected all our business, We are undone, our causes cast away, Sir, His not appearance. _Sam._ There he fought too long, A little and fight well, he fought too long indeed friends; But ne'r the less things must be as they may, And there be wayes-- _1 Cly._ We know, Sir, if you please-- _Sam._ Something I'le do: goe rally up your Causes. _Enter_ La-writ, _and a_ Gentleman, _at the door_. _2 Cly._ Now you may behold Sir, And be a witness, whether we lie or no. _La-writ._ I'le meet you at the Ordinary, sweet Gentlemen, And if there be a wench or two-- _Gen._ We'll have 'em. _La-writ._ No handling any Duells before I come, We'll have no going else, I hate a coward. _Gent._ There shall be nothing done. _La-writ._ Make all the quarrels You can devise before I come, and let's all fight, There is no sport else. _Gent._ We'll see what may be done, Sir. _1 Cly._ Ha? Monsieur _La-writ_. _La-writ._ Baffled in way of business, My causes cast away, Judgement against us? Why there it goes. _2 Cly._ What shall we do the whilst Sir? _La-wr._ Breed new dissentions, goe hang your selves 'Tis all one to me; I have a new trade of living. _1 Cli._ Do you hear what he saies Sir? _Sam._ The Gentleman speaks finely. _La-wr._ Will any of you fight? Fighting's my occupation If you find your selves aggriev'd. _Sam._ A compleat Gentleman. _La-writ._ Avant thou buckram budget of petitions, Thou spittle of lame causes; I lament for thee, And till revenge be taken-- _Sam._ 'Tis most excellent. _La-wr._ There, every man chuse his paper, and his place. I'le answer ye all, I will neglect no mans business But he shall have satisfaction like a Gentleman, The Judge may do and not do, he's but a Monsieur. _Sam._ You have nothing of mine in your bag, Sir. _La-writ._ I know not Sir, But you may put any thing in, any fighting thing. _Sam._ It is sufficient, you may hear hereafter. _La-writ._ I rest your servant Sir. _Sam._ No more words Gentlemen But follow me, no more words as you love me, The Gentleman's a noble Gentleman. I shall do what I can, and then-- _Cli._ We thank you Sir. [_Ex._ Sam. _and_ Clients. _Sam._ Not a word to disturb him, he's a Gentleman. _La-writ._ No cause go o' my side? the judge cast all? And because I was honourably employed in action, And not appear'd, pronounce? 'tis very well, 'Tis well faith, 'tis well, Judge. _Enter_ Cleremont. _Cler._ Who have we here? My little furious Lawyer? _La-writ._ I say 'tis well, But mark the end. _Cler._ How he is metamorphos'd! Nothing of Lawyer left, not a bit of buckram, No solliciting face now, This is no simple conversion. Your servant Sir, and Friend. _La-writ._ You come in time, Sir, _Cler._ The happier man, to be at your command then. _La-writ._ You may wonder to see me thus; but that's all one, Time shall declare; 'tis true I was a Lawyer, But I have mew'd that coat, I hate a Lawyer, I talk'd much in the Court, now I hate talking, I did you the office of a man. _Cler._ I must confess it. _La-w._ And budg'd not, no I budg'd not. _Cler._ No, you did not. _La-w._ There's it then, one good turn requires another. _Cler._ Most willing Sir, I am ready at your service. _La-w._ There, read, and understand, and then deliver it. _Cler._ This is a Challenge, Sir, _La-w._ 'Tis very like, Sir, I seldom now write Sonnets. _Cler._ _O admirantis_, To Monsieur _Vertaign_, the President. _La-w._ I chuse no Fool, Sir. _Cler._ Why, he's no Sword-man, Sir. _La-w._ Let him learn, let him learn, Time, that trains Chickens up, will teach him quickly. _Cler._ Why, he's a Judge, an Old Man. _La-w._ Never too Old To be a Gentleman; and he that is a Judge Can judge best what belongs to wounded honour. There are my griefs, he has cast away my causes, In which he has bowed my reputation. And therefore Judge, or no Judge. _Cler._ 'Pray be rul'd Sir, This is the maddest thing-- _La-w._ You will not carry it. _Cler._ I do not tell you so, but if you may be perswaded. _La-w._ You know how you us'd me when I would not fight, Do you remember, Gentleman? _Cler._ The Devil's in him. _La-w._ I see it in your Eyes, that you dare do it, You have a carrying face, and you shall carry it. _Cler._ The least is Banishment. _La-w._ Be banish'd then; 'Tis a friends part, we'll meet in _Africa_, Or any part of the Earth. _Cler._ Say he will not fight. _La-w._ I know then what to say, take you no care, Sir, _Cler._ Well, I will carry it, and deliver it, And to morrow morning meet you in the Louver, Till when, my service. _La-w._ A Judge, or no Judge, no Judge. [_Exit_ La-writ. _Cler._ This is the prettiest Rogue that e'r I read of, None to provoke to th' field, but the old President; What face shall I put on? if I come in earnest, I am sure to wear a pair of Bracelets; This may make some sport yet, I will deliver it, Here comes the President. _Enter_ Vertaign, _with two Gentlemen_. _Vert._ I shall find time, Gentlemen, To do your causes good, is not that _Cleremont_? _1 Gent._ 'Tis he my Lord. _Vert._ Why does he smile upon me? Am I become ridiculous? has your fortune, Sir, Upon my Son, made you contemn his Father? The glory of a Gentleman is fair bearing. _Cler._ Mistake me not my Lord, you shall not find that, I come with no blown Spirit to abuse you, I know your place and honour due unto it, The reverence to your silver Age and Vertue. _Vert._ Your face is merry still. _Cler._ So is my business, And I beseech your honour mistake me not, I have brought you from a wild or rather Mad-man As mad a piece of--you were wont to love mirth In your young days, I have known your Honour woo it, This may be made no little one, 'tis a Challenge, Sir, Nay, start not, I beseech you, it means you no harm, Nor any Man of Honour, or Understanding, 'Tis to steal from your serious hours a little laughter; I am bold to bring it to your Lordship. _Vert._ 'Tis to me indeed: Do they take me for a Sword-man at these years? _Cler._ 'Tis only worth your Honours Mirth, that's all Sir, 'Thad been in me else a sawcy rudeness. _Vert._ From one _La-writ_, a very punctual Challenge. _Cler._ But if your Lordship mark it, no great matter. _Vert._ I have known such a wrangling Advocate, Such a little figent thing; Oh I remember him, A notable talking Knave, now out upon him, Has challeng'd me downright, defied me mortally I do remember too, I cast his Causes. _Cler._ Why, there's the quarrel, Sir, the mortal quarrel. _Vert._ Why, what a Knave is this? as y'are a Gentleman, Is there no further purpose but meer mirth? What a bold Man of War! he invites me roundly. _Cler._ If there should be, I were no Gentleman, Nor worthy of the honour of my Kindred. And though I am sure your Lordship hates my Person, Which Time may bring again into your favour, Yet for the manners-- _Vert._ I am satisfied, You see, Sir, I have out-liv'd those days of fighting, And therefore cannot do him the honour to beat him my self; But I have a Kinsman much of his ability, His Wit and Courage, for this call him Fool, One that will spit as senseless fire as this Fellow. _Cler._ And such a man to undertake, my Lord? _Vert._ Nay he's too forward; these two pitch Barrels together. _Cler._ Upon my soul, no harm. _Vert._ It makes me smile, Why, what a stinking smother will they utter! Yes, he shall undertake, Sir, as my Champion, Since you propound it mirth, I'll venture on it, And shall defend my cause, but as y'are honest Sport not with bloud. _Cler._ Think not so basely, good Sir. _Vert._ A Squire shall wait upon you from my Kinsman, To morrow morning make you sport at full, You want no Subject; but no wounds. _Cler._ That's my care. _Ver._ And so good day. [_Ex._ Vertaign, _and Gentlemen_. _Cler._ Many unto your honour. This is a noble Fellow, of a sweet Spirit, Now must I think how to contrive this matter, For together they shall go. _Enter_ Dinant. _Din._ O _Cleremont_, I am glad I have found thee. _Cler._ I can tell thee rare things. _Din._ O, I can tell thee rarer, Dost thou love me? _Cler._ Love thee? _Din._ Dost thou love me dearly? Dar'st thou for my sake? _Cler._ Any thing that's honest. _Din._ Though it be dangerous? _Cler._ Pox o' dangerous. _Din._ Nay wondrous dangerous. _Cler._ Wilt thou break my heart? _Din._ Along with me then. _Cler._ I must part to morrow. _Din._ You shall, you shall, be faithful for this night, And thou hast made thy friend. _Cler._ Away, and talk not. [_Exeunt._ _Enter_ Lamira, _and Nurse_. _Lam._ O Nurse, welcome, where's _Dinant_? _Nurse._ He's at my back. 'Tis the most liberal Gentleman, this Gold He gave me for my pains, nor can I blame you, If you yield up the fort. _Lam._ How? yield it up? _Nurse._ I know not, he that loves, and gives so largely, And a young Lord to boot, or I am cozen'd, May enter every where. _Lam._ Thou'lt make me angry. _Enter_ Dinant, _and_ Cleremont. _Nur._ Why, if you are, I hope here's one will please you, Look on him with my Eyes, good luck go with you: Were I young for your sake-- _Din._ I thank thee, Nurse. _Nur._ I would be tractable, and as I am-- _Lam._ Leave the room, So old, and so immodest! and be careful, Since whispers will 'wake sleeping jealousies, That none disturb my Lord. [_Exit Nurse._ _Cler._ Will you dispatch? Till you come to the matter be not rapt thus, Walk in, walk in, I am your scout for once, You owe me the like service. _Din._ And will pay it. _Lam._ As you respect our lives, speak not so loud. _Cler._ Why, do it in dumb shew then, I am silenc'd. _Lam._ Be not so hasty, Sir, the golden Apples Had a fell Dragon for their Guard, your pleasures Are to be attempted with _Herculean_ danger, Or never to be gotten. _Din._ Speak the means. _Lam._ Thus briefly, my Lord sleeps now, and alas, Each Night, he only sleeps. _Cler._ Go, keep her stirring. _Lam._ Now if he 'wake, as sometimes he does, He only stretches out his hand and feels, Whether I am a bed, which being assur'd of, He sleeps again; but should he miss me, Valour Could not defend our lives. _Din._ What's to be done then? _Lam._ Servants have servile faiths, nor have I any That I dare trust; on noble _Cleremont_ We safely may rely. _Cler._ What man can do, Command and boldly. _Lam._ Thus then in my place, You must lye with my Lord. _Cler._ With an old man? Two Beards together, that's preposterous. _Lam._ There is no other way, and though 'tis dangerous, He having servants within call, and arm'd too, Slaves fed to act all that his jealousie And rage commands them, yet a true friend should not Check at the hazard of a life. _Cler._ I thank you, I love my friend, but know no reason why To hate my self; to be a kind of pander, You see I am willing, But to betray mine own throat you must pardon. _Din._ Then I am lost, and all my hopes defeated, Were I to hazard ten times more for you, You should find, _Cleremont_-- _Cler._ You shall not outdo me, Fall what may fall, I'll do't. _Din._ But for his Beard-- _Lam._ To cover that you shall have my night Linnen, And you dispos'd of, my _Dinant_ and I Will have some private conference. _Enter_ Champernel, _privately_. _Cler._ Private doing, Or I'll not venture. _Lam._ That's as we agree. [_Exeunt._ _Enter Nurse, and_ Charlotte, _pass over the Stage with Pillows, Night cloaths, and such things_. _Cham._ What can this Woman do, preserving her honour? I have given her all the liberty that may be, I will not be far off though, nor I will not be jealous, Nor trust too much, I think she is vertuous, Yet when I hold her best, she's but a Woman, As full of frailty as of faith, a poor sleight Woman, And her best thoughts, but weak fortifications, There may be a Mine wrought: Well, let 'em work then, I shall meet with it, till the signs be monstrous, And stick upon my head, I will not believe it, [_Stands private._ She may be, and she may not, now to my observation. _Enter_ Dinant, _and_ Lamira. _Din._ Why do you make me stay so? if you love me-- _Lam._ You are too hot and violent. _Din._ Why do you shift thus From one Chamber to another? _Lam._ A little delay, Sir, Like fire, a little sprinkled o'r with water Makes the desires burn clear, and ten times hotter. _Din._ Why do you speak so loud? I pray'e go in, Sweet Mistriss, I am mad, time steals away, And when we would enjoy-- _Lam._ Now fie, fie, Servant, Like sensual Beasts shall we enjoy our pleasures? _Din._ 'Pray do not kiss me then. _Lam._ Why, that I will, and you shall find anon, servant. _Din._ Softly, for heavens sake, you know my friend's engag'd, A little now, now; will ye go in again? _Lam._ Ha, ha, ha, ha. _Din._ Why do you laugh so loud, Precious? Will you betray me; ha' my friends throat cut? _Lam._ Come, come, I'll kiss thee again. _Cham._ Will you so? you are liberal, If you do cozen me-- _Enter Nurse with Wine._ _Din._ What's this? _Lam._ Wine, Wine, a draught or two. _Din._ What does this Woman here? _Lam._ She shall not hinder you. _Din._ This might have been spar'd, 'Tis but delay and time lost; pray send her softly off. _Lam._ Sit down, and mix your spirits with Wine, I will make you another _Hercules_. _Din._ I dare not drink; Fie, what delays you make! I dare not, I shall be drunk presently, and do strange things then. _Lam._ Not drink a cup with your Mistriss! O the pleasure. _Din._ Lady, why this? [_Musick._ _Lam._ We must have mirth to our Wine, Man. _Din._ Pl---- o' the Musick. _Champ._ God-a-mercy Wench, If thou dost cuckold me I shall forgive thee. _Din._ The house will all rise now, this will disturb all. Did you do this? _Lam._ Peace, and sit quiet, fool, You love me, come, sit down and drink. _Enter_ Cleremont _above_. _Cler._ What a Devil ail you? How cold I sweat! a hogs pox stop your pipes, [_Musick._ The thing will 'wake; now, now, methinks I find His Sword just gliding through my throat. What's that? A vengeance choak your pipes. Are you there, Lady? Stop, stop those Rascals; do you bring me hither To be cut into minced meat? why _Dinant_? _Din._ I cannot do withal; I have spoke, and spoke; I am betray'd and lost too. _Cler._ Do you hear me? do you understand me? 'Plague dam your Whistles. [_Musick ends._ _Lam._ 'Twas but an over-sight, they have done, lye down. _Cler._ Would you had done too, You know not In what a misery and fear I lye. You have a Lady in your arms. _Din._ I would have-- [_The Recorders again._ _Champ._ I'll watch you Goodman Wou'd have. _Cler._ Remove for Heavens sake, And fall to that you come for. _Lam._ Lie you down, 'Tis but an hours endurance now. _Cler._ I dare not, softly sweet Lady ----heart? _Lam._ 'Tis nothing but your fear, he sleeps still soundly, Lie gently down. _Cler._ 'Pray make an end. _Din._ Come, Madam. _Lam._ These Chambers are too near. [_Ex._ Din. Lam. _Cham._ I shall be nearer; Well, go thy wayes, I'le trust thee through the world, Deal how thou wilt: that that I never feel, I'le never fear. Yet by the honour of a Souldier, I hold thee truly noble: How these things will look, And how their blood will curdle! Play on Children, You shall have pap anon. O thou grand Fool, That thou knew'st but thy fortune-- [_Musick done._ _Cler._ Peace, good Madam, Stop her mouth, _Dinant_, it sleeps yet, 'pray be wary, Dispatch, I cannot endure this misery, I can hear nothing more; I'll say my prayers, And down again-- [_Whistle within._ A thousand Alarms fall upon my quarters, Heaven send me off; when I lye keeping Courses. Pl---- o' your fumbling, _Dinant_; how I shake! 'Tis still again: would I were in the _Indies_. [_Exit_ Cler. _Enter_ Dinant, _and_ Lamira: _a light within_. _Din._ Why do you use me thus? thus poorly? basely? Work me into a hope, and then destroy me? Why did you send for me? this new way train me? _Lam._ Mad-man, and fool, and false man, now I'll shew thee. _Din._ 'Pray put your light out. _Lam._ Nay I'll hold it thus, That all chaste Eyes may see thy lust, and scorn it. Tell me but this when you first doted on me, And made suit to enjoy me as your Wife, Did you not hold me honest? _Din._ Yes, most vertuous. _Lam._ And did not that appear the only lustre That made me worth your love and admiration? _Din._ I must confess-- _Lam._ Why would you deal so basely? So like a thief, a Villain? _Din._ Peace, good Madam. _Lam._ I'll speak aloud too; thus maliciously, Thus breaking all the Rules of honesty, Of honour and of truth, for which I lov'd you, For which I call'd you servant, and admir'd you; To steal that Jewel purchas'd by another, Piously set in Wedlock, even that Jewel, Because it had no flaw, you held unvaluable: Can he that has lov'd good, dote on the Devil? For he that seeks a Whore, seeks but his Agent; Or am I of so wild and low a blood? So nurs'd in infamies? _Din._ I do not think so, And I repent. _Lam._ That will not serve your turn, Sir. _Din._ It was your treaty drew me on. _Lam._ But it was your villany Made you pursue it; I drew you but to try How much a man, and nobly thou durst stand, How well you had deserv'd the name of vertuous; But you like a wild torrent, mix'd with all Beastly and base affections came floating on, Swelling your poyson'd billows-- _Din._ Will you betray me? _Lam._ To all the miseries a vext Woman may. _Din._ Let me but out, Give me but room to toss my Sword about me, And I will tell you y'are a treacherous woman, O that I had but words! _Lam._ They will not serve you. _Din._ But two-edg'd words to cut thee; a Lady traytor? Perish by a proud Puppet? I did you too much honour, To tender you my love, too much respected you To think you worthy of my worst embraces. Go take your Groom, and let him dally with you, Your greasie Groom; I scorn to imp your lame stock, You are not fair, nor handsome, I lyed loudly, This tongue abus'd you when it spoke you beauteous. _Lam._ 'Tis very well, 'tis brave. _Din._ Put out your light, Your lascivious eyes are flames enough For Fools to find you out; a Lady Plotter! Must I begin your sacrifice of mischief? I and my friend, the first-fruits of that bloud, You and your honourable Husband aim at? Crooked and wretched you are both. _Lam._ To you, Sir, Yet to the Eye of Justice straight as Truth. _Din._ Is this a womans love? a womans mercy? Do you profess this seriously? do you laugh at me? _Lam._ Ha, ha. _Din._ Pl---- light upon your scorns, upon your flatteries, Upon your tempting faces, all destructions; A bedrid winter hang upon your cheeks, And blast, blast, blast those buds of Pride that paint you; Death in your eyes to fright men from these dangers: Raise up your trophy, _Cleremont_. _Cler._ What a vengeance ail you? _Din._ What dismal noise! is there no honour in you? _Cleremont_, we are betrayed, betrayed, sold by a woman; Deal bravely for thy self. _Cler._ This comes of rutting; Are we made stales to one another? _Din._ Yes, we are undone, lost. _Cler._ You shall pay for't grey-beard. Up, up, you sleep your last else. {_Lights above, two Servants {and_ Anabel. _1 Serv._ No, not yet, Sir, Lady, look up, would you have wrong'd this Beauty? Wake so tender a Virgin with rough terms? You wear a Sword, we must entreat you leave it. _2 Serv._ Fye Sir, so sweet a Lady? _Cler._ Was this my bed-fellow, pray give me leave to look, I am not mad yet, I may be by and by. Did this lye by me? Did I fear this? is this a Cause to shake at? Away with me for shame, I am a Rascal. _Enter_ Champernel, Beaupre, Verdone, Lamira, Anabel, Cleremont, _and two Servants_. _Din._ I am amaz'd too. _Beaup._ We'll recover you. _Verd._ You walk like _Robin-good-fellow_ all the house over, And every man afraid of you. _Din._ 'Tis well, Lady; The honour of this deed will be your own, The world shall know your bounty. _Beaup._ What shall we do with 'em? _Cler._ Geld me, For 'tis not fit I should be a man again, I am an Ass, a Dog. _Lam._ Take your revenges, You know my Husbands wrongs and your own losses. _Anab._ A brave man, an admirable brave man; Well, well, I would not be so tryed again; A very handsome proper Gentleman. _Cler._ Will you let me lye by her but one hour more, And then hang me? _Din._ We wait your malice, put your swords home bravely, You have reason to seek bloud. _Lam._ Not as you are noble. _Cham._ Hands off, and give them liberty, only disarm 'em. _Beaup._ We have done that already. _Cham._ You are welcome, Gentlemen, I am glad my house has any pleasure for you, I keep a couple of Ladies here, they say fair, And you are young and handsome, Gentlemen; Have you any more mind to Wenches? _Cler._ To be abus'd too? Lady, you might have help'd this. _Ana._ Sir now 'tis past, but 't may be I may stand Your friend hereafter, in a greater matter. _Cler._ Never whilst you live. _Ana._ You cannot tell--now, Sir, a parting hand. _Cler._ Down and Roses: Well I may live to see you again. A dull Rogue, No revelation in thee. _Lam._ Were you well frighted? Were your fitts from the heart, of all colds and colours? That's all your punishment. _Cler._ It might have been all yours, Had not a block-head undertaken it. _Cham._ Your swords you must leave to these Gentlemen. _Verd._ And now, when you dare fight, We are on even Ice again. _Din._ 'Tis well: To be a Mistris, is to be a monster, And so I leave your house, and you for ever. _Lam._ Leave your wild lusts, and then you are a master. _Cham._ You may depart too. _Cler._ I had rather stay here. _Cham._ Faith we shall fright you worse. _Cler._ Not in that manner, There's five hundred Crowns, fright me but so again. _Din._ Come _Cleremont_, this is the hour of fool. _Cler._ Wiser the next shall be or we'll to School. [_Exeunt._ _Champ._ How coolly these hot gallants are departed! Faith Cousin, 'twas unconscionably done, To lye so still, and so long. _Anab._ 'Twas your pleasure, If 'twere a fault, I may hereafter mend. _Champ._ O my best Wife, Take now what course thou wilt, and lead what life. _Lam._ The more trust you commit, the more care still, Goodness and vertue shall attend my will. _Cham._ Let's laugh this night out now, and count our gains. We have our honours home, and they their pains. [_Exeunt omnes._ _Actus Quartus. Scena Prima._ _Enter_ Cleremont, Dinant. _Din._ It holds, they will go thither. _Cler._ To their Summer-house? _Din._ Thither i'th' evening, and which is the most infliction, Only to insult upon our miseries. _Cler._ Are you provided? _Din._ Yes, yes. _Cler._ Throughly? _Din._ Throughly. _Cler._ Basta, enough, I have your mind, I will not fail you. _Din._ At such an hour. _Cler._ Have I a memory? A Cause, and Will to do? thou art so sullen-- _Din._ And shall be, till I have a fair reparation. _Cler._ I have more reason, for I scaped a fortune, Which if I come so near again: I say nothing, But if I sweat not in another fashion-- O, a delicate Wench. _Din._ 'Tis certain a most handsome one. _Cler._ And me thought the thing was angry with it self too It lay so long conceal'd, but I must part with you, I have a scene of mirth, to drive this from my heart, And my hour is come. _Din._ Miss not your time. _Cler._ I dare not. [_Exeunt severally._ _Enter_ Sampson, _and a Gentleman_. _Gent._ I presume, Sir, you now need no instruction, But fairly know, what belongs to a Gentleman; You bear your Uncles cause. _Sam._ Do not disturb me, I understand my cause, and the right carriage. _Gent._ Be not too bloody. _Sam._ As I find my enemy; if his sword bite, If it bite, Sir, you must pardon me. _Gent._ No doubt he is valiant, He durst not undertake else, _Sam._ He's most welcome, As he is most valiant, he were no man for me else. _Gent._ But say he should relent. _Sam._ He dies relenting, I cannot help it, he must di[e] relenting, If he pray, praying, _ipso facto_, praying, Your honourable way admits no prayer, And if he fight, he falls, there's his _quietus_. _Gent._ Y'are nobly punctual, let's retire and meet 'em, But still, I say, have mercy. _Samp._ I say, honour. [_Exeunt._ _Enter_ Champernel, Lamira, Anabel, Beaupre, Verdone, Charlote _and a Servant_. _Lam._ Will not you go sweet-heart? _Champ._ Go? I'le fly with thee. I stay behind? _Lam._ My Father will be there too, And all our best friends. _Beau._ And if we be not merry, We have hard luck, Lady. _Verd._ Faith let's have a kind of play. _Cham._ What shall it be? _Verd._ The story of _Dinant_. _Lam._ With the merry conceits of _Cleremont_, His Fits and Feavers. _Ana._ But I'le lie still no more. _Lam._ That, as you make the Play, 'twill be rare sport, And how 'twill vex my gallants, when they hear it! Have you given order for the Coach? _Charl._ Yes, Madam. _Cham._ My easie Nag, and padd. _Serv._ 'Tis making ready. _Champ._ Where are your Horses? _Beau._ Ready at an hour, Sir: we'll not be last. _Cham._ Fie, what a night shall we have! A roaring, merry night. _Lam._ We'll flie at all, Sir. _Cham._ I'le flie at thee too, finely, and so ruffle thee, I'le try your Art upon a Country pallet. _Lam._ Brag not too much, for fear I should expect it, Then if you fail-- _Cham._ Thou saiest too true, we all talk.

sake

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

villain, (But yet no coward) and sollicites me To my dishonour, that's indeed a quarrel, And truly mine, which I will so revenge, As it shall fright such as dare only think To be adulterers. _Cham._ Use thine own waies, I give up all to thee. _Beau._ O women, women! When you are pleas'd you are the least of evils. _Verd._ I'le rime to't, but provokt, the worst of Devils. [_Exeunt._ _Enter Monsieur_ Sampson, _and three Clients_. _Samp._ I know Monsieur _La-writ_. _1 Cly._ Would he knew himself, Sir. _Samp._ He was a pretty Lawyer, a kind of pretty Lawyer, Of a kind of unable thing. _2 Cly._ A fine Lawyer, Sir, And would have firk'd you up a business, And out of this Court into that. _Samp._ Ye are too forward Not so fine my friends, something he could have done, But short short. _1 Cly._ I know your worships favour, You are Nephew to the Judge, Sir. _Samp._ It may be so, And something may be done, without trotting i'th' dirt, friends; It may be I can take him in his Chamber, And have an hours talk, it may be so, And tell him that in's ear; there are such courtesies; I will not say, I can. _3 Cly._ We know you can, Sir. _Sam._ Peradventure I, peradventure no: but where's _La-writ_? Where's your sufficient Lawyer? _1 Cly._ He's blown up, Sir. _2 Cly._ Run mad and quarrels with the Dog he meets; He is no Lawyer of this world now. _Sam._ Your reason? Is he defunct? is he dead? _2 Cly._ No he's not dead yet, Sir; But I would be loth to take a lease on's life for two hours: Alas, he is possest Sir, with the spirit of fighting And quarrels with all people; but how he came to it-- _Samp._ If he fight well and like a Gentleman, The man may fight, for 'tis a lawfull calling. Look you my friends, I am a civil Gentleman, And my Lord my Uncle loves me. _3 Cly._ We all know it, Sir. _Sam._ I think he does, Sir, I have business too, much business, Turn you some forty or fifty Causes in a week; Yet when I get an hour of vacancie, I can fight too my friends, a little does well, I would be loth to learn to fight. _1 Cly._ But and't please you Sir, His fighting has neglected all our business, We are undone, our causes cast away, Sir, His not appearance. _Sam._ There he fought too long, A little and fight well, he fought too long indeed friends; But ne'r the less things must be as they may, And there be wayes-- _1 Cly._ We know, Sir, if you please-- _Sam._ Something I'le do: goe rally up your Causes. _Enter_ La-writ, _and a_ Gentleman, _at the door_. _2 Cly._ Now you may behold Sir, And be a witness, whether we lie or no. _La-writ._ I'le meet you at the Ordinary, sweet Gentlemen, And if there be a wench or two-- _Gen._ We'll have 'em. _La-writ._ No handling any Duells before I come, We'll have no going else, I hate a coward. _Gent._ There shall be nothing done. _La-writ._ Make all the quarrels You can devise before I come, and let's all fight, There is no sport else. _Gent._ We'll see what may be done, Sir. _1 Cly._ Ha? Monsieur _La-writ_. _La-writ._ Baffled in way of business, My causes cast away, Judgement against us? Why there it goes. _2 Cly._ What shall we do the whilst Sir? _La-wr._ Breed new dissentions, goe hang your selves 'Tis all one to me; I have a new trade of living. _1 Cli._ Do you hear what he saies Sir? _Sam._ The Gentleman speaks finely. _La-wr._ Will any of you fight? Fighting's my occupation If you find your selves aggriev'd. _Sam._ A compleat Gentleman. _La-writ._ Avant thou buckram budget of petitions, Thou spittle of lame causes; I lament for thee, And till revenge be taken-- _Sam._ 'Tis most excellent. _La-wr._ There, every man chuse his paper, and his place. I'le answer ye all, I will neglect no mans business But he shall have satisfaction like a Gentleman, The Judge may do and not do, he's but a Monsieur. _Sam._ You have nothing of mine in your bag, Sir. _La-writ._ I know not Sir, But you may put any thing in, any fighting thing. _Sam._ It is sufficient, you may hear hereafter. _La-writ._ I rest your servant Sir. _Sam._ No more words Gentlemen But follow me, no more words as you love me, The Gentleman's a noble Gentleman. I shall do what I can, and then-- _Cli._ We thank you Sir. [_Ex._ Sam. _and_ Clients. _Sam._ Not a word to disturb him, he's a Gentleman. _La-writ._ No cause go o' my side? the judge cast all? And because I was honourably employed in action, And not appear'd, pronounce? 'tis very well, 'Tis well faith, 'tis well, Judge. _Enter_ Cleremont. _Cler._ Who have we here? My little furious Lawyer? _La-writ._ I say 'tis well, But mark the end. _Cler._ How he is metamorphos'd! Nothing of Lawyer left, not a bit of buckram, No solliciting face now, This is no simple conversion. Your servant Sir, and Friend. _La-writ._ You come in time, Sir, _Cler._ The happier man, to be at your command then. _La-writ._ You may wonder to see me thus; but that's all one, Time shall declare; 'tis true I was a Lawyer, But I have mew'd that coat, I hate a Lawyer, I talk'd much in the Court, now I hate talking, I did you the office of a man. _Cler._ I must confess it. _La-w._ And budg'd not, no I budg'd not. _Cler._ No, you did not. _La-w._ There's it then, one good turn requires another. _Cler._ Most willing Sir, I am ready at your service. _La-w._ There, read, and understand, and then deliver it. _Cler._ This is a Challenge, Sir, _La-w._ 'Tis very like, Sir, I seldom now write Sonnets. _Cler._ _O admirantis_, To Monsieur _Vertaign_, the President. _La-w._ I chuse no Fool, Sir. _Cler._ Why, he's no Sword-man, Sir. _La-w._ Let him learn, let him learn, Time, that trains Chickens up, will teach him quickly. _Cler._ Why, he's a Judge, an Old Man. _La-w._ Never too Old To be a Gentleman; and he that is a Judge Can judge best what belongs to wounded honour. There are my griefs, he has cast away my causes, In which he has bowed my reputation. And therefore Judge, or no Judge. _Cler._ 'Pray be rul'd Sir, This is the maddest thing-- _La-w._ You will not carry it. _Cler._ I do not tell you so, but if you may be perswaded. _La-w._ You know how you us'd me when I would not fight, Do you remember, Gentleman? _Cler._ The Devil's in him. _La-w._ I see it in your Eyes, that you dare do it, You have a carrying face, and you shall carry it. _Cler._ The least is Banishment. _La-w._ Be banish'd then; 'Tis a friends part, we'll meet in _Africa_, Or any part of the Earth. _Cler._ Say he will not fight. _La-w._ I know then what to say, take you no care, Sir, _Cler._ Well, I will carry it, and deliver it, And to morrow morning meet you in the Louver, Till when, my service. _La-w._ A Judge, or no Judge, no Judge. [_Exit_ La-writ. _Cler._ This is the prettiest Rogue that e'r I read of, None to provoke to th' field, but the old President; What face shall I put on? if I come in earnest, I am sure to wear a pair of Bracelets; This may make some sport yet, I will deliver it, Here comes the President. _Enter_ Vertaign, _with two Gentlemen_. _Vert._ I shall find time, Gentlemen, To do your causes good, is not that _Cleremont_? _1 Gent._ 'Tis he my Lord. _Vert._ Why does he smile upon me? Am I become ridiculous? has your fortune, Sir, Upon my Son, made you contemn his Father? The glory of a Gentleman is fair bearing. _Cler._ Mistake me not my Lord, you shall not find that, I come with no blown Spirit to abuse you, I know your place and honour due unto it, The reverence to your silver Age and Vertue. _Vert._ Your face is merry still. _Cler._ So is my business, And I beseech your honour mistake me not, I have brought you from a wild or rather Mad-man As mad a piece of--you were wont to love mirth In your young days, I have known your Honour woo it, This may be made no little one, 'tis a Challenge, Sir, Nay, start not, I beseech you, it means you no harm, Nor any Man of Honour, or Understanding, 'Tis to steal from your serious hours a little laughter; I am bold to bring it to your Lordship. _Vert._ 'Tis to me indeed: Do they take me for a Sword-man at these years? _Cler._ 'Tis only worth your Honours Mirth, that's all Sir, 'Thad been in me else a sawcy rudeness. _Vert._ From one _La-writ_, a very punctual Challenge. _Cler._ But if your Lordship mark it, no great matter. _Vert._ I have known such a wrangling Advocate, Such a little figent thing; Oh I remember him, A notable talking Knave, now out upon him, Has challeng'd me downright, defied me mortally I do remember too, I cast his Causes. _Cler._ Why, there's the quarrel, Sir, the mortal quarrel. _Vert._ Why, what a Knave is this? as y'are a Gentleman, Is there no further purpose but meer mirth? What a bold Man of War! he invites me roundly. _Cler._ If there should be, I were no Gentleman, Nor worthy of the honour of my Kindred. And though I am sure your Lordship hates my Person, Which Time may bring again into your favour, Yet for the manners-- _Vert._ I am satisfied, You see, Sir, I have out-liv'd those days of fighting, And therefore cannot do him the honour to beat him my self; But I have a Kinsman much of his ability, His Wit and Courage, for this call him Fool, One that will spit as senseless fire as this Fellow. _Cler._ And such a man to undertake, my Lord? _Vert._ Nay he's too forward; these two pitch Barrels together. _Cler._ Upon my soul, no harm. _Vert._ It makes me smile, Why, what a stinking smother will they utter! Yes, he shall undertake, Sir, as my Champion, Since you propound it mirth, I'll venture on it, And shall defend my cause, but as y'are honest Sport not with bloud. _Cler._ Think not so basely, good Sir. _Vert._ A Squire shall wait upon you from my Kinsman, To morrow morning make you sport at full, You want no Subject; but no wounds. _Cler._ That's my care. _Ver._ And so good day. [_Ex._ Vertaign, _and Gentlemen_. _Cler._ Many unto your honour. This is a noble Fellow, of a sweet Spirit, Now must I think how to contrive this matter, For together they shall go. _Enter_ Dinant. _Din._ O _Cleremont_, I am glad I have found thee. _Cler._ I can tell thee rare things. _Din._ O, I can tell thee rarer, Dost thou love me? _Cler._ Love thee? _Din._ Dost thou love me dearly? Dar'st thou for my sake? _Cler._ Any thing that's honest. _Din._ Though it be dangerous? _Cler._ Pox o' dangerous. _Din._ Nay wondrous dangerous. _Cler._ Wilt thou break my heart? _Din._ Along with me then. _Cler._ I must part to morrow. _Din._ You shall, you shall, be faithful for this night, And thou hast made thy friend. _Cler._ Away, and talk not. [_Exeunt._ _Enter_ Lamira, _and Nurse_. _Lam._ O Nurse, welcome, where's _Dinant_? _Nurse._ He's at my back. 'Tis the most liberal Gentleman, this Gold He gave me for my pains, nor can I blame you, If you yield up the fort. _Lam._ How? yield it up? _Nurse._ I know not, he that loves, and gives so largely, And a young Lord to boot, or I am cozen'd, May enter every where. _Lam._ Thou'lt make me angry. _Enter_ Dinant, _and_ Cleremont. _Nur._ Why, if you are, I hope here's one will please you, Look on him with my Eyes, good luck go with you: Were I young for your sake-- _Din._ I thank thee, Nurse. _Nur._ I would be tractable, and as I am-- _Lam._ Leave the room, So old, and so immodest! and be careful, Since whispers will 'wake sleeping jealousies, That none disturb my Lord. [_Exit Nurse._ _Cler._ Will you dispatch? Till you come to the matter be not rapt thus, Walk in, walk in, I am your scout for once, You owe me the like service. _Din._ And will pay it. _Lam._ As you respect our lives, speak not so loud. _Cler._ Why, do it in dumb shew then, I am silenc'd. _Lam._ Be not so hasty, Sir, the golden Apples Had a fell Dragon for their Guard, your pleasures Are to be attempted with _Herculean_ danger, Or never to be gotten. _Din._ Speak the means. _Lam._ Thus briefly, my Lord sleeps now, and alas, Each Night, he only sleeps. _Cler._ Go, keep her stirring. _Lam._ Now if he 'wake, as sometimes he does, He only stretches out his hand and feels, Whether I am a bed, which being assur'd of, He sleeps again; but should he miss me, Valour Could not defend our lives. _Din._ What's to be done then? _Lam._ Servants have servile faiths, nor have I any That I dare trust; on noble _Cleremont_ We safely may rely. _Cler._ What man can do, Command and boldly. _Lam._ Thus then in my place, You must lye with my Lord. _Cler._ With an old man? Two Beards together, that's preposterous. _Lam._ There is no other way, and though 'tis dangerous, He having servants within call, and arm'd too, Slaves fed to act all that his jealousie And rage commands them, yet a true friend should not Check at the hazard of a life. _Cler._ I thank you, I love my friend, but know no reason why To hate my self; to be a kind of pander, You see I am willing, But to betray mine own throat you must pardon. _Din._ Then I am lost, and all my hopes defeated, Were I to hazard ten times more for you, You should find, _Cleremont_-- _Cler._ You shall not outdo me, Fall what may fall, I'll do't. _Din._ But for his Beard-- _Lam._ To cover that you shall have my night Linnen, And you dispos'd of, my _Dinant_ and I Will have some private conference. _Enter_ Champernel, _privately_. _Cler._ Private doing, Or I'll not venture. _Lam._ That's as we agree. [_Exeunt._ _Enter Nurse, and_ Charlotte, _pass over the Stage with Pillows, Night cloaths, and such things_. _Cham._ What can this Woman do, preserving her honour? I have given her all the liberty that may be, I will not be far off though, nor I will not be jealous, Nor trust too much, I think she is vertuous, Yet when I hold her best, she's but a Woman, As full of frailty as of faith, a poor sleight Woman, And her best thoughts, but weak fortifications, There may be a Mine wrought: Well, let 'em work then, I shall meet with it, till the signs be monstrous, And stick upon my head, I will not believe it, [_Stands private._ She may be, and she may not, now to my observation. _Enter_ Dinant, _and_ Lamira. _Din._ Why do you make me stay so? if you love me-- _Lam._ You are too hot and violent. _Din._ Why do you shift thus From one Chamber to another? _Lam._ A little delay, Sir, Like fire, a little sprinkled o'r with water Makes the desires burn clear, and ten times hotter. _Din._ Why do you speak so loud? I pray'e go in, Sweet Mistriss, I am mad, time steals away, And when we would enjoy-- _Lam._ Now fie, fie, Servant, Like sensual Beasts shall we enjoy our pleasures? _Din._ 'Pray do not kiss me then. _Lam._ Why, that I will, and you shall find anon, servant. _Din._ Softly, for heavens sake, you know my friend's engag'd, A little now, now; will ye go in again? _Lam._ Ha, ha, ha, ha. _Din._ Why do you laugh so loud, Precious? Will you betray me; ha' my friends throat cut? _Lam._ Come, come, I'll kiss thee again. _Cham._ Will you so? you are liberal, If you do cozen me-- _Enter Nurse with Wine._ _Din._ What's this? _Lam._ Wine, Wine, a draught or two. _Din._ What does this Woman here? _Lam._ She shall not hinder you. _Din._ This might have been spar'd, 'Tis but delay and time lost; pray send her softly off. _Lam._ Sit down, and mix your spirits with Wine, I will make you another _Hercules_. _Din._ I dare not drink; Fie, what delays you make! I dare not, I shall be drunk presently, and do strange things then. _Lam._ Not drink a cup with your Mistriss! O the pleasure. _Din._ Lady, why this? [_Musick._ _Lam._ We must have mirth to our Wine, Man. _Din._ Pl---- o' the Musick. _Champ._ God-a-mercy Wench, If thou dost cuckold me I shall forgive thee. _Din._ The house will all rise now, this will disturb all. Did you do this? _Lam._ Peace, and sit quiet, fool, You love me, come, sit down and drink. _Enter_ Cleremont _above_. _Cler._ What a Devil ail you? How cold I sweat! a hogs pox stop your pipes, [_Musick._ The thing will 'wake; now, now, methinks I find His Sword just gliding through my throat. What's that? A vengeance choak your pipes. Are you there, Lady? Stop, stop those Rascals; do you bring me hither To be cut into minced meat? why _Dinant_? _Din._ I cannot do withal; I have spoke, and spoke; I am betray'd and lost too. _Cler._ Do you hear me? do you understand me? 'Plague dam your Whistles. [_Musick ends._ _Lam._ 'Twas but an over-sight, they have done, lye down. _Cler._ Would you had done too, You know not In what a misery and fear I lye. You have a Lady in your arms. _Din._ I would have-- [_The Recorders again._ _Champ._ I'll watch you Goodman Wou'd have. _Cler._ Remove for Heavens sake, And fall to that you come for. _Lam._ Lie you down, 'Tis but an hours endurance now. _Cler._ I dare not, softly sweet Lady ----heart? _Lam._ 'Tis nothing but your fear, he sleeps still soundly, Lie gently down. _Cler._ 'Pray make an end. _Din._ Come, Madam. _Lam._ These Chambers are too near. [_Ex._ Din. Lam. _Cham._ I shall be nearer; Well, go thy wayes, I'le trust thee through the world, Deal how thou wilt: that that I never feel, I'le never fear. Yet by the honour of a Souldier, I hold thee truly noble: How these things will look, And how their blood will curdle! Play on Children, You shall have pap anon. O thou grand Fool, That thou knew'st but thy fortune-- [_Musick done._ _Cler._ Peace, good Madam, Stop her mouth, _Dinant_, it sleeps yet, 'pray be wary, Dispatch, I cannot endure this misery, I can hear nothing more; I'll say my prayers, And down again-- [_Whistle within._ A thousand Alarms fall upon my quarters, Heaven send me off; when I lye keeping Courses. Pl---- o' your fumbling, _Dinant_; how I shake! 'Tis still again: would I were in the _Indies_. [_Exit_ Cler. _Enter_ Dinant, _and_ Lamira: _a light within_. _Din._ Why do you use me thus? thus poorly? basely? Work me into a hope, and then destroy me? Why did you send for me? this new way train me? _Lam._ Mad-man, and fool, and false man, now I'll shew thee. _Din._ 'Pray put your light out. _Lam._ Nay I'll hold it thus, That all chaste Eyes may see thy lust, and scorn it. Tell me but this when you first doted on me, And made suit to enjoy me as your Wife, Did you not hold me honest? _Din._ Yes, most vertuous. _Lam._ And did not that appear the only lustre That made me worth your love and admiration? _Din._ I must confess-- _Lam._ Why would you deal so basely? So like a thief, a Villain? _Din._ Peace, good Madam. _Lam._ I'll speak aloud too; thus maliciously, Thus breaking all the Rules of honesty, Of honour and of truth, for which I lov'd you, For which I call'd you servant, and admir'd you; To steal that Jewel purchas'd by another, Piously set in Wedlock, even that Jewel, Because it had no flaw, you held unvaluable: Can he that has lov'd good, dote on the Devil? For he that seeks a Whore, seeks but his Agent; Or am I of so wild and low a blood? So nurs'd in infamies? _Din._ I do not think so, And I repent. _Lam._ That will not serve your turn, Sir. _Din._ It was your treaty drew me on. _Lam._ But it was your villany Made you pursue it; I drew you but to try How much a man, and nobly thou durst stand, How well you had deserv'd the name of vertuous; But you like a wild torrent, mix'd with all Beastly and base affections came floating on, Swelling your poyson'd billows-- _Din._ Will you betray me? _Lam._ To all the miseries a vext Woman may. _Din._ Let me but out, Give me but room to toss my Sword about me, And I will tell you y'are a treacherous woman, O that I had but words! _Lam._ They will not serve you. _Din._ But two-edg'd words to cut thee; a Lady traytor? Perish by a proud Puppet? I did you too much honour, To tender you my love, too much respected you To think you worthy of my worst embraces. Go take your Groom, and let him dally with you, Your greasie Groom; I scorn to imp your lame stock, You are not fair, nor handsome, I lyed loudly, This tongue abus'd you when it spoke you beauteous. _Lam._ 'Tis very well, 'tis brave. _Din._ Put out your light, Your lascivious eyes are flames enough For Fools to find you out; a Lady Plotter! Must I begin your sacrifice of mischief? I and my friend, the first-fruits of that bloud, You and your honourable Husband aim at? Crooked and wretched you are both. _Lam._ To you, Sir, Yet to the Eye of Justice straight as Truth. _Din._ Is this a womans love? a womans mercy? Do you profess this seriously? do you laugh at me? _Lam._ Ha, ha. _Din._ Pl---- light upon your scorns, upon your flatteries, Upon your tempting faces, all destructions; A bedrid winter hang upon your cheeks, And blast, blast, blast those buds of Pride that paint you; Death in your eyes to fright men from these dangers: Raise up your trophy, _Cleremont_. _Cler._ What a vengeance ail you? _Din._ What dismal noise! is there no honour in you? _Cleremont_, we are betrayed, betrayed, sold by a woman; Deal bravely for thy self. _Cler._ This comes of rutting; Are we made stales to one another? _Din._ Yes, we are undone, lost. _Cler._ You shall pay for't grey-beard. Up, up, you sleep your last else. {_Lights above, two Servants {and_ Anabel. _1 Serv._ No, not yet, Sir, Lady, look up, would you have wrong'd this Beauty? Wake so tender a Virgin with rough terms? You wear a Sword, we must entreat you leave it. _2 Serv._ Fye Sir, so sweet a Lady? _Cler._ Was this my bed-fellow, pray give me leave to look, I am not mad yet, I may be by and by. Did this lye by me? Did I fear this? is this a Cause to shake at? Away with me for shame, I am a Rascal. _Enter_ Champernel, Beaupre, Verdone, Lamira, Anabel, Cleremont, _and two Servants_. _Din._ I am amaz'd too. _Beaup._ We'll recover you. _Verd._ You walk like _Robin-good-fellow_ all the house over, And every man afraid of you. _Din._ 'Tis well, Lady; The honour of this deed will be your own, The world shall know your bounty. _Beaup._ What shall we do with 'em? _Cler._ Geld me, For 'tis not fit I should be a man again, I am an Ass, a Dog. _Lam._ Take your revenges, You know my Husbands wrongs and your own losses. _Anab._ A brave man, an admirable brave man; Well, well, I would not be so tryed again; A very handsome proper Gentleman. _Cler._ Will you let me lye by her but one hour more, And then hang me? _Din._ We wait your malice, put your swords home bravely, You have reason to seek bloud. _Lam._ Not as you are noble. _Cham._ Hands off, and give them liberty, only disarm 'em. _Beaup._ We have done that already. _Cham._ You are welcome, Gentlemen, I am glad my house has any pleasure for you, I keep a couple of Ladies here, they say fair, And you are young and handsome, Gentlemen; Have you any more mind to Wenches? _Cler._ To be abus'd too? Lady, you might have help'd this. _Ana._ Sir now 'tis past, but 't may be I may stand Your friend hereafter, in a greater matter. _Cler._ Never whilst you live. _Ana._ You cannot tell--now, Sir, a parting hand. _Cler._ Down and Roses: Well I may live to see you again. A dull Rogue, No revelation in thee. _Lam._ Were you well frighted? Were your fitts from the heart, of all colds and colours? That's all your punishment. _Cler._ It might have been all yours, Had not a block-head undertaken it. _Cham._ Your swords you must leave to these Gentlemen. _Verd._ And now, when you dare fight, We are on even Ice again. _Din._ 'Tis well: To be a Mistris, is to be a monster, And so I leave your house, and you for ever. _Lam._ Leave your wild lusts, and then you are a master. _Cham._ You may depart too. _Cler._ I had rather stay here. _Cham._ Faith we shall fright you worse. _Cler._ Not in that manner, There's five hundred Crowns, fright me but so again. _Din._ Come _Cleremont_, this is the hour of fool. _Cler._ Wiser the next shall be or we'll to School. [_Exeunt._ _Champ._ How coolly these hot gallants are departed! Faith Cousin, 'twas unconscionably done, To lye so still, and so long. _Anab._ 'Twas your pleasure, If 'twere a fault, I may hereafter mend. _Champ._ O my best Wife, Take now what course thou wilt, and lead what life. _Lam._ The more trust you commit, the more care still, Goodness and vertue shall attend my will. _Cham._ Let's laugh this night out now, and count our gains. We have our honours home, and they their pains. [_Exeunt omnes._ _Actus Quartus. Scena Prima._ _Enter_ Cleremont, Dinant. _Din._ It holds, they will go thither. _Cler._ To their Summer-house? _Din._ Thither i'th' evening, and which is the most infliction, Only to insult upon our miseries. _Cler._ Are you provided? _Din._ Yes, yes. _Cler._ Throughly? _Din._ Throughly. _Cler._ Basta, enough, I have your mind, I will not fail you. _Din._ At such an hour. _Cler._ Have I a memory? A Cause, and Will to do? thou art so sullen-- _Din._ And shall be, till I have a fair reparation. _Cler._ I have more reason, for I scaped a fortune, Which if I come so near again: I say nothing, But if I sweat not in another fashion-- O, a delicate Wench. _Din._ 'Tis certain a most handsome one. _Cler._ And me thought the thing was angry with it self too It lay so long conceal'd, but I must part with you, I have a scene of mirth, to drive this from my heart, And my hour is come. _Din._ Miss not your time. _Cler._ I dare not. [_Exeunt severally._ _Enter_ Sampson, _and a Gentleman_. _Gent._ I presume, Sir, you now need no instruction, But fairly know, what belongs to a Gentleman; You bear your Uncles cause. _Sam._ Do not disturb me, I understand my cause, and the right carriage. _Gent._ Be not too bloody. _Sam._ As I find my enemy; if his sword bite, If it bite, Sir, you must pardon me. _Gent._ No doubt he is valiant, He durst not undertake else, _Sam._ He's most welcome, As he is most valiant, he were no man for me else. _Gent._ But say he should relent. _Sam._ He dies relenting, I cannot help it, he must di[e] relenting, If he pray, praying, _ipso facto_, praying, Your honourable way admits no prayer, And if he fight, he falls, there's his _quietus_. _Gent._ Y'are nobly punctual, let's retire and meet 'em, But still, I say, have mercy. _Samp._ I say, honour. [_Exeunt._ _Enter_ Champernel, Lamira, Anabel, Beaupre, Verdone, Charlote _and a Servant_. _Lam._ Will not you go sweet-heart? _Champ._ Go? I'le fly with thee. I stay behind? _Lam._ My Father will be there too, And all our best friends. _Beau._ And if we be not merry, We have hard luck, Lady. _Verd._ Faith let's have a kind of play. _Cham._ What shall it be? _Verd._ The story of _Dinant_. _Lam._ With the merry conceits of _Cleremont_, His Fits and Feavers. _Ana._ But I'le lie still no more. _Lam._ That, as you make the Play, 'twill be rare sport, And how 'twill vex my gallants, when they hear it! Have you given order for the Coach? _Charl._ Yes, Madam. _Cham._ My easie Nag, and padd. _Serv._ 'Tis making ready. _Champ._ Where are your Horses? _Beau._ Ready at an hour, Sir: we'll not be last. _Cham._ Fie, what a night shall we have! A roaring, merry night. _Lam._ We'll flie at all, Sir. _Cham._ I'le flie at thee too, finely, and so ruffle thee, I'le try your Art upon a Country pallet. _Lam._ Brag not too much, for fear I should expect it, Then if you fail-- _Cham._ Thou saiest too true, we all talk.

landscape

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

villain, (But yet no coward) and sollicites me To my dishonour, that's indeed a quarrel, And truly mine, which I will so revenge, As it shall fright such as dare only think To be adulterers. _Cham._ Use thine own waies, I give up all to thee. _Beau._ O women, women! When you are pleas'd you are the least of evils. _Verd._ I'le rime to't, but provokt, the worst of Devils. [_Exeunt._ _Enter Monsieur_ Sampson, _and three Clients_. _Samp._ I know Monsieur _La-writ_. _1 Cly._ Would he knew himself, Sir. _Samp._ He was a pretty Lawyer, a kind of pretty Lawyer, Of a kind of unable thing. _2 Cly._ A fine Lawyer, Sir, And would have firk'd you up a business, And out of this Court into that. _Samp._ Ye are too forward Not so fine my friends, something he could have done, But short short. _1 Cly._ I know your worships favour, You are Nephew to the Judge, Sir. _Samp._ It may be so, And something may be done, without trotting i'th' dirt, friends; It may be I can take him in his Chamber, And have an hours talk, it may be so, And tell him that in's ear; there are such courtesies; I will not say, I can. _3 Cly._ We know you can, Sir. _Sam._ Peradventure I, peradventure no: but where's _La-writ_? Where's your sufficient Lawyer? _1 Cly._ He's blown up, Sir. _2 Cly._ Run mad and quarrels with the Dog he meets; He is no Lawyer of this world now. _Sam._ Your reason? Is he defunct? is he dead? _2 Cly._ No he's not dead yet, Sir; But I would be loth to take a lease on's life for two hours: Alas, he is possest Sir, with the spirit of fighting And quarrels with all people; but how he came to it-- _Samp._ If he fight well and like a Gentleman, The man may fight, for 'tis a lawfull calling. Look you my friends, I am a civil Gentleman, And my Lord my Uncle loves me. _3 Cly._ We all know it, Sir. _Sam._ I think he does, Sir, I have business too, much business, Turn you some forty or fifty Causes in a week; Yet when I get an hour of vacancie, I can fight too my friends, a little does well, I would be loth to learn to fight. _1 Cly._ But and't please you Sir, His fighting has neglected all our business, We are undone, our causes cast away, Sir, His not appearance. _Sam._ There he fought too long, A little and fight well, he fought too long indeed friends; But ne'r the less things must be as they may, And there be wayes-- _1 Cly._ We know, Sir, if you please-- _Sam._ Something I'le do: goe rally up your Causes. _Enter_ La-writ, _and a_ Gentleman, _at the door_. _2 Cly._ Now you may behold Sir, And be a witness, whether we lie or no. _La-writ._ I'le meet you at the Ordinary, sweet Gentlemen, And if there be a wench or two-- _Gen._ We'll have 'em. _La-writ._ No handling any Duells before I come, We'll have no going else, I hate a coward. _Gent._ There shall be nothing done. _La-writ._ Make all the quarrels You can devise before I come, and let's all fight, There is no sport else. _Gent._ We'll see what may be done, Sir. _1 Cly._ Ha? Monsieur _La-writ_. _La-writ._ Baffled in way of business, My causes cast away, Judgement against us? Why there it goes. _2 Cly._ What shall we do the whilst Sir? _La-wr._ Breed new dissentions, goe hang your selves 'Tis all one to me; I have a new trade of living. _1 Cli._ Do you hear what he saies Sir? _Sam._ The Gentleman speaks finely. _La-wr._ Will any of you fight? Fighting's my occupation If you find your selves aggriev'd. _Sam._ A compleat Gentleman. _La-writ._ Avant thou buckram budget of petitions, Thou spittle of lame causes; I lament for thee, And till revenge be taken-- _Sam._ 'Tis most excellent. _La-wr._ There, every man chuse his paper, and his place. I'le answer ye all, I will neglect no mans business But he shall have satisfaction like a Gentleman, The Judge may do and not do, he's but a Monsieur. _Sam._ You have nothing of mine in your bag, Sir. _La-writ._ I know not Sir, But you may put any thing in, any fighting thing. _Sam._ It is sufficient, you may hear hereafter. _La-writ._ I rest your servant Sir. _Sam._ No more words Gentlemen But follow me, no more words as you love me, The Gentleman's a noble Gentleman. I shall do what I can, and then-- _Cli._ We thank you Sir. [_Ex._ Sam. _and_ Clients. _Sam._ Not a word to disturb him, he's a Gentleman. _La-writ._ No cause go o' my side? the judge cast all? And because I was honourably employed in action, And not appear'd, pronounce? 'tis very well, 'Tis well faith, 'tis well, Judge. _Enter_ Cleremont. _Cler._ Who have we here? My little furious Lawyer? _La-writ._ I say 'tis well, But mark the end. _Cler._ How he is metamorphos'd! Nothing of Lawyer left, not a bit of buckram, No solliciting face now, This is no simple conversion. Your servant Sir, and Friend. _La-writ._ You come in time, Sir, _Cler._ The happier man, to be at your command then. _La-writ._ You may wonder to see me thus; but that's all one, Time shall declare; 'tis true I was a Lawyer, But I have mew'd that coat, I hate a Lawyer, I talk'd much in the Court, now I hate talking, I did you the office of a man. _Cler._ I must confess it. _La-w._ And budg'd not, no I budg'd not. _Cler._ No, you did not. _La-w._ There's it then, one good turn requires another. _Cler._ Most willing Sir, I am ready at your service. _La-w._ There, read, and understand, and then deliver it. _Cler._ This is a Challenge, Sir, _La-w._ 'Tis very like, Sir, I seldom now write Sonnets. _Cler._ _O admirantis_, To Monsieur _Vertaign_, the President. _La-w._ I chuse no Fool, Sir. _Cler._ Why, he's no Sword-man, Sir. _La-w._ Let him learn, let him learn, Time, that trains Chickens up, will teach him quickly. _Cler._ Why, he's a Judge, an Old Man. _La-w._ Never too Old To be a Gentleman; and he that is a Judge Can judge best what belongs to wounded honour. There are my griefs, he has cast away my causes, In which he has bowed my reputation. And therefore Judge, or no Judge. _Cler._ 'Pray be rul'd Sir, This is the maddest thing-- _La-w._ You will not carry it. _Cler._ I do not tell you so, but if you may be perswaded. _La-w._ You know how you us'd me when I would not fight, Do you remember, Gentleman? _Cler._ The Devil's in him. _La-w._ I see it in your Eyes, that you dare do it, You have a carrying face, and you shall carry it. _Cler._ The least is Banishment. _La-w._ Be banish'd then; 'Tis a friends part, we'll meet in _Africa_, Or any part of the Earth. _Cler._ Say he will not fight. _La-w._ I know then what to say, take you no care, Sir, _Cler._ Well, I will carry it, and deliver it, And to morrow morning meet you in the Louver, Till when, my service. _La-w._ A Judge, or no Judge, no Judge. [_Exit_ La-writ. _Cler._ This is the prettiest Rogue that e'r I read of, None to provoke to th' field, but the old President; What face shall I put on? if I come in earnest, I am sure to wear a pair of Bracelets; This may make some sport yet, I will deliver it, Here comes the President. _Enter_ Vertaign, _with two Gentlemen_. _Vert._ I shall find time, Gentlemen, To do your causes good, is not that _Cleremont_? _1 Gent._ 'Tis he my Lord. _Vert._ Why does he smile upon me? Am I become ridiculous? has your fortune, Sir, Upon my Son, made you contemn his Father? The glory of a Gentleman is fair bearing. _Cler._ Mistake me not my Lord, you shall not find that, I come with no blown Spirit to abuse you, I know your place and honour due unto it, The reverence to your silver Age and Vertue. _Vert._ Your face is merry still. _Cler._ So is my business, And I beseech your honour mistake me not, I have brought you from a wild or rather Mad-man As mad a piece of--you were wont to love mirth In your young days, I have known your Honour woo it, This may be made no little one, 'tis a Challenge, Sir, Nay, start not, I beseech you, it means you no harm, Nor any Man of Honour, or Understanding, 'Tis to steal from your serious hours a little laughter; I am bold to bring it to your Lordship. _Vert._ 'Tis to me indeed: Do they take me for a Sword-man at these years? _Cler._ 'Tis only worth your Honours Mirth, that's all Sir, 'Thad been in me else a sawcy rudeness. _Vert._ From one _La-writ_, a very punctual Challenge. _Cler._ But if your Lordship mark it, no great matter. _Vert._ I have known such a wrangling Advocate, Such a little figent thing; Oh I remember him, A notable talking Knave, now out upon him, Has challeng'd me downright, defied me mortally I do remember too, I cast his Causes. _Cler._ Why, there's the quarrel, Sir, the mortal quarrel. _Vert._ Why, what a Knave is this? as y'are a Gentleman, Is there no further purpose but meer mirth? What a bold Man of War! he invites me roundly. _Cler._ If there should be, I were no Gentleman, Nor worthy of the honour of my Kindred. And though I am sure your Lordship hates my Person, Which Time may bring again into your favour, Yet for the manners-- _Vert._ I am satisfied, You see, Sir, I have out-liv'd those days of fighting, And therefore cannot do him the honour to beat him my self; But I have a Kinsman much of his ability, His Wit and Courage, for this call him Fool, One that will spit as senseless fire as this Fellow. _Cler._ And such a man to undertake, my Lord? _Vert._ Nay he's too forward; these two pitch Barrels together. _Cler._ Upon my soul, no harm. _Vert._ It makes me smile, Why, what a stinking smother will they utter! Yes, he shall undertake, Sir, as my Champion, Since you propound it mirth, I'll venture on it, And shall defend my cause, but as y'are honest Sport not with bloud. _Cler._ Think not so basely, good Sir. _Vert._ A Squire shall wait upon you from my Kinsman, To morrow morning make you sport at full, You want no Subject; but no wounds. _Cler._ That's my care. _Ver._ And so good day. [_Ex._ Vertaign, _and Gentlemen_. _Cler._ Many unto your honour. This is a noble Fellow, of a sweet Spirit, Now must I think how to contrive this matter, For together they shall go. _Enter_ Dinant. _Din._ O _Cleremont_, I am glad I have found thee. _Cler._ I can tell thee rare things. _Din._ O, I can tell thee rarer, Dost thou love me? _Cler._ Love thee? _Din._ Dost thou love me dearly? Dar'st thou for my sake? _Cler._ Any thing that's honest. _Din._ Though it be dangerous? _Cler._ Pox o' dangerous. _Din._ Nay wondrous dangerous. _Cler._ Wilt thou break my heart? _Din._ Along with me then. _Cler._ I must part to morrow. _Din._ You shall, you shall, be faithful for this night, And thou hast made thy friend. _Cler._ Away, and talk not. [_Exeunt._ _Enter_ Lamira, _and Nurse_. _Lam._ O Nurse, welcome, where's _Dinant_? _Nurse._ He's at my back. 'Tis the most liberal Gentleman, this Gold He gave me for my pains, nor can I blame you, If you yield up the fort. _Lam._ How? yield it up? _Nurse._ I know not, he that loves, and gives so largely, And a young Lord to boot, or I am cozen'd, May enter every where. _Lam._ Thou'lt make me angry. _Enter_ Dinant, _and_ Cleremont. _Nur._ Why, if you are, I hope here's one will please you, Look on him with my Eyes, good luck go with you: Were I young for your sake-- _Din._ I thank thee, Nurse. _Nur._ I would be tractable, and as I am-- _Lam._ Leave the room, So old, and so immodest! and be careful, Since whispers will 'wake sleeping jealousies, That none disturb my Lord. [_Exit Nurse._ _Cler._ Will you dispatch? Till you come to the matter be not rapt thus, Walk in, walk in, I am your scout for once, You owe me the like service. _Din._ And will pay it. _Lam._ As you respect our lives, speak not so loud. _Cler._ Why, do it in dumb shew then, I am silenc'd. _Lam._ Be not so hasty, Sir, the golden Apples Had a fell Dragon for their Guard, your pleasures Are to be attempted with _Herculean_ danger, Or never to be gotten. _Din._ Speak the means. _Lam._ Thus briefly, my Lord sleeps now, and alas, Each Night, he only sleeps. _Cler._ Go, keep her stirring. _Lam._ Now if he 'wake, as sometimes he does, He only stretches out his hand and feels, Whether I am a bed, which being assur'd of, He sleeps again; but should he miss me, Valour Could not defend our lives. _Din._ What's to be done then? _Lam._ Servants have servile faiths, nor have I any That I dare trust; on noble _Cleremont_ We safely may rely. _Cler._ What man can do, Command and boldly. _Lam._ Thus then in my place, You must lye with my Lord. _Cler._ With an old man? Two Beards together, that's preposterous. _Lam._ There is no other way, and though 'tis dangerous, He having servants within call, and arm'd too, Slaves fed to act all that his jealousie And rage commands them, yet a true friend should not Check at the hazard of a life. _Cler._ I thank you, I love my friend, but know no reason why To hate my self; to be a kind of pander, You see I am willing, But to betray mine own throat you must pardon. _Din._ Then I am lost, and all my hopes defeated, Were I to hazard ten times more for you, You should find, _Cleremont_-- _Cler._ You shall not outdo me, Fall what may fall, I'll do't. _Din._ But for his Beard-- _Lam._ To cover that you shall have my night Linnen, And you dispos'd of, my _Dinant_ and I Will have some private conference. _Enter_ Champernel, _privately_. _Cler._ Private doing, Or I'll not venture. _Lam._ That's as we agree. [_Exeunt._ _Enter Nurse, and_ Charlotte, _pass over the Stage with Pillows, Night cloaths, and such things_. _Cham._ What can this Woman do, preserving her honour? I have given her all the liberty that may be, I will not be far off though, nor I will not be jealous, Nor trust too much, I think she is vertuous, Yet when I hold her best, she's but a Woman, As full of frailty as of faith, a poor sleight Woman, And her best thoughts, but weak fortifications, There may be a Mine wrought: Well, let 'em work then, I shall meet with it, till the signs be monstrous, And stick upon my head, I will not believe it, [_Stands private._ She may be, and she may not, now to my observation. _Enter_ Dinant, _and_ Lamira. _Din._ Why do you make me stay so? if you love me-- _Lam._ You are too hot and violent. _Din._ Why do you shift thus From one Chamber to another? _Lam._ A little delay, Sir, Like fire, a little sprinkled o'r with water Makes the desires burn clear, and ten times hotter. _Din._ Why do you speak so loud? I pray'e go in, Sweet Mistriss, I am mad, time steals away, And when we would enjoy-- _Lam._ Now fie, fie, Servant, Like sensual Beasts shall we enjoy our pleasures? _Din._ 'Pray do not kiss me then. _Lam._ Why, that I will, and you shall find anon, servant. _Din._ Softly, for heavens sake, you know my friend's engag'd, A little now, now; will ye go in again? _Lam._ Ha, ha, ha, ha. _Din._ Why do you laugh so loud, Precious? Will you betray me; ha' my friends throat cut? _Lam._ Come, come, I'll kiss thee again. _Cham._ Will you so? you are liberal, If you do cozen me-- _Enter Nurse with Wine._ _Din._ What's this? _Lam._ Wine, Wine, a draught or two. _Din._ What does this Woman here? _Lam._ She shall not hinder you. _Din._ This might have been spar'd, 'Tis but delay and time lost; pray send her softly off. _Lam._ Sit down, and mix your spirits with Wine, I will make you another _Hercules_. _Din._ I dare not drink; Fie, what delays you make! I dare not, I shall be drunk presently, and do strange things then. _Lam._ Not drink a cup with your Mistriss! O the pleasure. _Din._ Lady, why this? [_Musick._ _Lam._ We must have mirth to our Wine, Man. _Din._ Pl---- o' the Musick. _Champ._ God-a-mercy Wench, If thou dost cuckold me I shall forgive thee. _Din._ The house will all rise now, this will disturb all. Did you do this? _Lam._ Peace, and sit quiet, fool, You love me, come, sit down and drink. _Enter_ Cleremont _above_. _Cler._ What a Devil ail you? How cold I sweat! a hogs pox stop your pipes, [_Musick._ The thing will 'wake; now, now, methinks I find His Sword just gliding through my throat. What's that? A vengeance choak your pipes. Are you there, Lady? Stop, stop those Rascals; do you bring me hither To be cut into minced meat? why _Dinant_? _Din._ I cannot do withal; I have spoke, and spoke; I am betray'd and lost too. _Cler._ Do you hear me? do you understand me? 'Plague dam your Whistles. [_Musick ends._ _Lam._ 'Twas but an over-sight, they have done, lye down. _Cler._ Would you had done too, You know not In what a misery and fear I lye. You have a Lady in your arms. _Din._ I would have-- [_The Recorders again._ _Champ._ I'll watch you Goodman Wou'd have. _Cler._ Remove for Heavens sake, And fall to that you come for. _Lam._ Lie you down, 'Tis but an hours endurance now. _Cler._ I dare not, softly sweet Lady ----heart? _Lam._ 'Tis nothing but your fear, he sleeps still soundly, Lie gently down. _Cler._ 'Pray make an end. _Din._ Come, Madam. _Lam._ These Chambers are too near. [_Ex._ Din. Lam. _Cham._ I shall be nearer; Well, go thy wayes, I'le trust thee through the world, Deal how thou wilt: that that I never feel, I'le never fear. Yet by the honour of a Souldier, I hold thee truly noble: How these things will look, And how their blood will curdle! Play on Children, You shall have pap anon. O thou grand Fool, That thou knew'st but thy fortune-- [_Musick done._ _Cler._ Peace, good Madam, Stop her mouth, _Dinant_, it sleeps yet, 'pray be wary, Dispatch, I cannot endure this misery, I can hear nothing more; I'll say my prayers, And down again-- [_Whistle within._ A thousand Alarms fall upon my quarters, Heaven send me off; when I lye keeping Courses. Pl---- o' your fumbling, _Dinant_; how I shake! 'Tis still again: would I were in the _Indies_. [_Exit_ Cler. _Enter_ Dinant, _and_ Lamira: _a light within_. _Din._ Why do you use me thus? thus poorly? basely? Work me into a hope, and then destroy me? Why did you send for me? this new way train me? _Lam._ Mad-man, and fool, and false man, now I'll shew thee. _Din._ 'Pray put your light out. _Lam._ Nay I'll hold it thus, That all chaste Eyes may see thy lust, and scorn it. Tell me but this when you first doted on me, And made suit to enjoy me as your Wife, Did you not hold me honest? _Din._ Yes, most vertuous. _Lam._ And did not that appear the only lustre That made me worth your love and admiration? _Din._ I must confess-- _Lam._ Why would you deal so basely? So like a thief, a Villain? _Din._ Peace, good Madam. _Lam._ I'll speak aloud too; thus maliciously, Thus breaking all the Rules of honesty, Of honour and of truth, for which I lov'd you, For which I call'd you servant, and admir'd you; To steal that Jewel purchas'd by another, Piously set in Wedlock, even that Jewel, Because it had no flaw, you held unvaluable: Can he that has lov'd good, dote on the Devil? For he that seeks a Whore, seeks but his Agent; Or am I of so wild and low a blood? So nurs'd in infamies? _Din._ I do not think so, And I repent. _Lam._ That will not serve your turn, Sir. _Din._ It was your treaty drew me on. _Lam._ But it was your villany Made you pursue it; I drew you but to try How much a man, and nobly thou durst stand, How well you had deserv'd the name of vertuous; But you like a wild torrent, mix'd with all Beastly and base affections came floating on, Swelling your poyson'd billows-- _Din._ Will you betray me? _Lam._ To all the miseries a vext Woman may. _Din._ Let me but out, Give me but room to toss my Sword about me, And I will tell you y'are a treacherous woman, O that I had but words! _Lam._ They will not serve you. _Din._ But two-edg'd words to cut thee; a Lady traytor? Perish by a proud Puppet? I did you too much honour, To tender you my love, too much respected you To think you worthy of my worst embraces. Go take your Groom, and let him dally with you, Your greasie Groom; I scorn to imp your lame stock, You are not fair, nor handsome, I lyed loudly, This tongue abus'd you when it spoke you beauteous. _Lam._ 'Tis very well, 'tis brave. _Din._ Put out your light, Your lascivious eyes are flames enough For Fools to find you out; a Lady Plotter! Must I begin your sacrifice of mischief? I and my friend, the first-fruits of that bloud, You and your honourable Husband aim at? Crooked and wretched you are both. _Lam._ To you, Sir, Yet to the Eye of Justice straight as Truth. _Din._ Is this a womans love? a womans mercy? Do you profess this seriously? do you laugh at me? _Lam._ Ha, ha. _Din._ Pl---- light upon your scorns, upon your flatteries, Upon your tempting faces, all destructions; A bedrid winter hang upon your cheeks, And blast, blast, blast those buds of Pride that paint you; Death in your eyes to fright men from these dangers: Raise up your trophy, _Cleremont_. _Cler._ What a vengeance ail you? _Din._ What dismal noise! is there no honour in you? _Cleremont_, we are betrayed, betrayed, sold by a woman; Deal bravely for thy self. _Cler._ This comes of rutting; Are we made stales to one another? _Din._ Yes, we are undone, lost. _Cler._ You shall pay for't grey-beard. Up, up, you sleep your last else. {_Lights above, two Servants {and_ Anabel. _1 Serv._ No, not yet, Sir, Lady, look up, would you have wrong'd this Beauty? Wake so tender a Virgin with rough terms? You wear a Sword, we must entreat you leave it. _2 Serv._ Fye Sir, so sweet a Lady? _Cler._ Was this my bed-fellow, pray give me leave to look, I am not mad yet, I may be by and by. Did this lye by me? Did I fear this? is this a Cause to shake at? Away with me for shame, I am a Rascal. _Enter_ Champernel, Beaupre, Verdone, Lamira, Anabel, Cleremont, _and two Servants_. _Din._ I am amaz'd too. _Beaup._ We'll recover you. _Verd._ You walk like _Robin-good-fellow_ all the house over, And every man afraid of you. _Din._ 'Tis well, Lady; The honour of this deed will be your own, The world shall know your bounty. _Beaup._ What shall we do with 'em? _Cler._ Geld me, For 'tis not fit I should be a man again, I am an Ass, a Dog. _Lam._ Take your revenges, You know my Husbands wrongs and your own losses. _Anab._ A brave man, an admirable brave man; Well, well, I would not be so tryed again; A very handsome proper Gentleman. _Cler._ Will you let me lye by her but one hour more, And then hang me? _Din._ We wait your malice, put your swords home bravely, You have reason to seek bloud. _Lam._ Not as you are noble. _Cham._ Hands off, and give them liberty, only disarm 'em. _Beaup._ We have done that already. _Cham._ You are welcome, Gentlemen, I am glad my house has any pleasure for you, I keep a couple of Ladies here, they say fair, And you are young and handsome, Gentlemen; Have you any more mind to Wenches? _Cler._ To be abus'd too? Lady, you might have help'd this. _Ana._ Sir now 'tis past, but 't may be I may stand Your friend hereafter, in a greater matter. _Cler._ Never whilst you live. _Ana._ You cannot tell--now, Sir, a parting hand. _Cler._ Down and Roses: Well I may live to see you again. A dull Rogue, No revelation in thee. _Lam._ Were you well frighted? Were your fitts from the heart, of all colds and colours? That's all your punishment. _Cler._ It might have been all yours, Had not a block-head undertaken it. _Cham._ Your swords you must leave to these Gentlemen. _Verd._ And now, when you dare fight, We are on even Ice again. _Din._ 'Tis well: To be a Mistris, is to be a monster, And so I leave your house, and you for ever. _Lam._ Leave your wild lusts, and then you are a master. _Cham._ You may depart too. _Cler._ I had rather stay here. _Cham._ Faith we shall fright you worse. _Cler._ Not in that manner, There's five hundred Crowns, fright me but so again. _Din._ Come _Cleremont_, this is the hour of fool. _Cler._ Wiser the next shall be or we'll to School. [_Exeunt._ _Champ._ How coolly these hot gallants are departed! Faith Cousin, 'twas unconscionably done, To lye so still, and so long. _Anab._ 'Twas your pleasure, If 'twere a fault, I may hereafter mend. _Champ._ O my best Wife, Take now what course thou wilt, and lead what life. _Lam._ The more trust you commit, the more care still, Goodness and vertue shall attend my will. _Cham._ Let's laugh this night out now, and count our gains. We have our honours home, and they their pains. [_Exeunt omnes._ _Actus Quartus. Scena Prima._ _Enter_ Cleremont, Dinant. _Din._ It holds, they will go thither. _Cler._ To their Summer-house? _Din._ Thither i'th' evening, and which is the most infliction, Only to insult upon our miseries. _Cler._ Are you provided? _Din._ Yes, yes. _Cler._ Throughly? _Din._ Throughly. _Cler._ Basta, enough, I have your mind, I will not fail you. _Din._ At such an hour. _Cler._ Have I a memory? A Cause, and Will to do? thou art so sullen-- _Din._ And shall be, till I have a fair reparation. _Cler._ I have more reason, for I scaped a fortune, Which if I come so near again: I say nothing, But if I sweat not in another fashion-- O, a delicate Wench. _Din._ 'Tis certain a most handsome one. _Cler._ And me thought the thing was angry with it self too It lay so long conceal'd, but I must part with you, I have a scene of mirth, to drive this from my heart, And my hour is come. _Din._ Miss not your time. _Cler._ I dare not. [_Exeunt severally._ _Enter_ Sampson, _and a Gentleman_. _Gent._ I presume, Sir, you now need no instruction, But fairly know, what belongs to a Gentleman; You bear your Uncles cause. _Sam._ Do not disturb me, I understand my cause, and the right carriage. _Gent._ Be not too bloody. _Sam._ As I find my enemy; if his sword bite, If it bite, Sir, you must pardon me. _Gent._ No doubt he is valiant, He durst not undertake else, _Sam._ He's most welcome, As he is most valiant, he were no man for me else. _Gent._ But say he should relent. _Sam._ He dies relenting, I cannot help it, he must di[e] relenting, If he pray, praying, _ipso facto_, praying, Your honourable way admits no prayer, And if he fight, he falls, there's his _quietus_. _Gent._ Y'are nobly punctual, let's retire and meet 'em, But still, I say, have mercy. _Samp._ I say, honour. [_Exeunt._ _Enter_ Champernel, Lamira, Anabel, Beaupre, Verdone, Charlote _and a Servant_. _Lam._ Will not you go sweet-heart? _Champ._ Go? I'le fly with thee. I stay behind? _Lam._ My Father will be there too, And all our best friends. _Beau._ And if we be not merry, We have hard luck, Lady. _Verd._ Faith let's have a kind of play. _Cham._ What shall it be? _Verd._ The story of _Dinant_. _Lam._ With the merry conceits of _Cleremont_, His Fits and Feavers. _Ana._ But I'le lie still no more. _Lam._ That, as you make the Play, 'twill be rare sport, And how 'twill vex my gallants, when they hear it! Have you given order for the Coach? _Charl._ Yes, Madam. _Cham._ My easie Nag, and padd. _Serv._ 'Tis making ready. _Champ._ Where are your Horses? _Beau._ Ready at an hour, Sir: we'll not be last. _Cham._ Fie, what a night shall we have! A roaring, merry night. _Lam._ We'll flie at all, Sir. _Cham._ I'le flie at thee too, finely, and so ruffle thee, I'le try your Art upon a Country pallet. _Lam._ Brag not too much, for fear I should expect it, Then if you fail-- _Cham._ Thou saiest too true, we all talk.

desires

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

villain, (But yet no coward) and sollicites me To my dishonour, that's indeed a quarrel, And truly mine, which I will so revenge, As it shall fright such as dare only think To be adulterers. _Cham._ Use thine own waies, I give up all to thee. _Beau._ O women, women! When you are pleas'd you are the least of evils. _Verd._ I'le rime to't, but provokt, the worst of Devils. [_Exeunt._ _Enter Monsieur_ Sampson, _and three Clients_. _Samp._ I know Monsieur _La-writ_. _1 Cly._ Would he knew himself, Sir. _Samp._ He was a pretty Lawyer, a kind of pretty Lawyer, Of a kind of unable thing. _2 Cly._ A fine Lawyer, Sir, And would have firk'd you up a business, And out of this Court into that. _Samp._ Ye are too forward Not so fine my friends, something he could have done, But short short. _1 Cly._ I know your worships favour, You are Nephew to the Judge, Sir. _Samp._ It may be so, And something may be done, without trotting i'th' dirt, friends; It may be I can take him in his Chamber, And have an hours talk, it may be so, And tell him that in's ear; there are such courtesies; I will not say, I can. _3 Cly._ We know you can, Sir. _Sam._ Peradventure I, peradventure no: but where's _La-writ_? Where's your sufficient Lawyer? _1 Cly._ He's blown up, Sir. _2 Cly._ Run mad and quarrels with the Dog he meets; He is no Lawyer of this world now. _Sam._ Your reason? Is he defunct? is he dead? _2 Cly._ No he's not dead yet, Sir; But I would be loth to take a lease on's life for two hours: Alas, he is possest Sir, with the spirit of fighting And quarrels with all people; but how he came to it-- _Samp._ If he fight well and like a Gentleman, The man may fight, for 'tis a lawfull calling. Look you my friends, I am a civil Gentleman, And my Lord my Uncle loves me. _3 Cly._ We all know it, Sir. _Sam._ I think he does, Sir, I have business too, much business, Turn you some forty or fifty Causes in a week; Yet when I get an hour of vacancie, I can fight too my friends, a little does well, I would be loth to learn to fight. _1 Cly._ But and't please you Sir, His fighting has neglected all our business, We are undone, our causes cast away, Sir, His not appearance. _Sam._ There he fought too long, A little and fight well, he fought too long indeed friends; But ne'r the less things must be as they may, And there be wayes-- _1 Cly._ We know, Sir, if you please-- _Sam._ Something I'le do: goe rally up your Causes. _Enter_ La-writ, _and a_ Gentleman, _at the door_. _2 Cly._ Now you may behold Sir, And be a witness, whether we lie or no. _La-writ._ I'le meet you at the Ordinary, sweet Gentlemen, And if there be a wench or two-- _Gen._ We'll have 'em. _La-writ._ No handling any Duells before I come, We'll have no going else, I hate a coward. _Gent._ There shall be nothing done. _La-writ._ Make all the quarrels You can devise before I come, and let's all fight, There is no sport else. _Gent._ We'll see what may be done, Sir. _1 Cly._ Ha? Monsieur _La-writ_. _La-writ._ Baffled in way of business, My causes cast away, Judgement against us? Why there it goes. _2 Cly._ What shall we do the whilst Sir? _La-wr._ Breed new dissentions, goe hang your selves 'Tis all one to me; I have a new trade of living. _1 Cli._ Do you hear what he saies Sir? _Sam._ The Gentleman speaks finely. _La-wr._ Will any of you fight? Fighting's my occupation If you find your selves aggriev'd. _Sam._ A compleat Gentleman. _La-writ._ Avant thou buckram budget of petitions, Thou spittle of lame causes; I lament for thee, And till revenge be taken-- _Sam._ 'Tis most excellent. _La-wr._ There, every man chuse his paper, and his place. I'le answer ye all, I will neglect no mans business But he shall have satisfaction like a Gentleman, The Judge may do and not do, he's but a Monsieur. _Sam._ You have nothing of mine in your bag, Sir. _La-writ._ I know not Sir, But you may put any thing in, any fighting thing. _Sam._ It is sufficient, you may hear hereafter. _La-writ._ I rest your servant Sir. _Sam._ No more words Gentlemen But follow me, no more words as you love me, The Gentleman's a noble Gentleman. I shall do what I can, and then-- _Cli._ We thank you Sir. [_Ex._ Sam. _and_ Clients. _Sam._ Not a word to disturb him, he's a Gentleman. _La-writ._ No cause go o' my side? the judge cast all? And because I was honourably employed in action, And not appear'd, pronounce? 'tis very well, 'Tis well faith, 'tis well, Judge. _Enter_ Cleremont. _Cler._ Who have we here? My little furious Lawyer? _La-writ._ I say 'tis well, But mark the end. _Cler._ How he is metamorphos'd! Nothing of Lawyer left, not a bit of buckram, No solliciting face now, This is no simple conversion. Your servant Sir, and Friend. _La-writ._ You come in time, Sir, _Cler._ The happier man, to be at your command then. _La-writ._ You may wonder to see me thus; but that's all one, Time shall declare; 'tis true I was a Lawyer, But I have mew'd that coat, I hate a Lawyer, I talk'd much in the Court, now I hate talking, I did you the office of a man. _Cler._ I must confess it. _La-w._ And budg'd not, no I budg'd not. _Cler._ No, you did not. _La-w._ There's it then, one good turn requires another. _Cler._ Most willing Sir, I am ready at your service. _La-w._ There, read, and understand, and then deliver it. _Cler._ This is a Challenge, Sir, _La-w._ 'Tis very like, Sir, I seldom now write Sonnets. _Cler._ _O admirantis_, To Monsieur _Vertaign_, the President. _La-w._ I chuse no Fool, Sir. _Cler._ Why, he's no Sword-man, Sir. _La-w._ Let him learn, let him learn, Time, that trains Chickens up, will teach him quickly. _Cler._ Why, he's a Judge, an Old Man. _La-w._ Never too Old To be a Gentleman; and he that is a Judge Can judge best what belongs to wounded honour. There are my griefs, he has cast away my causes, In which he has bowed my reputation. And therefore Judge, or no Judge. _Cler._ 'Pray be rul'd Sir, This is the maddest thing-- _La-w._ You will not carry it. _Cler._ I do not tell you so, but if you may be perswaded. _La-w._ You know how you us'd me when I would not fight, Do you remember, Gentleman? _Cler._ The Devil's in him. _La-w._ I see it in your Eyes, that you dare do it, You have a carrying face, and you shall carry it. _Cler._ The least is Banishment. _La-w._ Be banish'd then; 'Tis a friends part, we'll meet in _Africa_, Or any part of the Earth. _Cler._ Say he will not fight. _La-w._ I know then what to say, take you no care, Sir, _Cler._ Well, I will carry it, and deliver it, And to morrow morning meet you in the Louver, Till when, my service. _La-w._ A Judge, or no Judge, no Judge. [_Exit_ La-writ. _Cler._ This is the prettiest Rogue that e'r I read of, None to provoke to th' field, but the old President; What face shall I put on? if I come in earnest, I am sure to wear a pair of Bracelets; This may make some sport yet, I will deliver it, Here comes the President. _Enter_ Vertaign, _with two Gentlemen_. _Vert._ I shall find time, Gentlemen, To do your causes good, is not that _Cleremont_? _1 Gent._ 'Tis he my Lord. _Vert._ Why does he smile upon me? Am I become ridiculous? has your fortune, Sir, Upon my Son, made you contemn his Father? The glory of a Gentleman is fair bearing. _Cler._ Mistake me not my Lord, you shall not find that, I come with no blown Spirit to abuse you, I know your place and honour due unto it, The reverence to your silver Age and Vertue. _Vert._ Your face is merry still. _Cler._ So is my business, And I beseech your honour mistake me not, I have brought you from a wild or rather Mad-man As mad a piece of--you were wont to love mirth In your young days, I have known your Honour woo it, This may be made no little one, 'tis a Challenge, Sir, Nay, start not, I beseech you, it means you no harm, Nor any Man of Honour, or Understanding, 'Tis to steal from your serious hours a little laughter; I am bold to bring it to your Lordship. _Vert._ 'Tis to me indeed: Do they take me for a Sword-man at these years? _Cler._ 'Tis only worth your Honours Mirth, that's all Sir, 'Thad been in me else a sawcy rudeness. _Vert._ From one _La-writ_, a very punctual Challenge. _Cler._ But if your Lordship mark it, no great matter. _Vert._ I have known such a wrangling Advocate, Such a little figent thing; Oh I remember him, A notable talking Knave, now out upon him, Has challeng'd me downright, defied me mortally I do remember too, I cast his Causes. _Cler._ Why, there's the quarrel, Sir, the mortal quarrel. _Vert._ Why, what a Knave is this? as y'are a Gentleman, Is there no further purpose but meer mirth? What a bold Man of War! he invites me roundly. _Cler._ If there should be, I were no Gentleman, Nor worthy of the honour of my Kindred. And though I am sure your Lordship hates my Person, Which Time may bring again into your favour, Yet for the manners-- _Vert._ I am satisfied, You see, Sir, I have out-liv'd those days of fighting, And therefore cannot do him the honour to beat him my self; But I have a Kinsman much of his ability, His Wit and Courage, for this call him Fool, One that will spit as senseless fire as this Fellow. _Cler._ And such a man to undertake, my Lord? _Vert._ Nay he's too forward; these two pitch Barrels together. _Cler._ Upon my soul, no harm. _Vert._ It makes me smile, Why, what a stinking smother will they utter! Yes, he shall undertake, Sir, as my Champion, Since you propound it mirth, I'll venture on it, And shall defend my cause, but as y'are honest Sport not with bloud. _Cler._ Think not so basely, good Sir. _Vert._ A Squire shall wait upon you from my Kinsman, To morrow morning make you sport at full, You want no Subject; but no wounds. _Cler._ That's my care. _Ver._ And so good day. [_Ex._ Vertaign, _and Gentlemen_. _Cler._ Many unto your honour. This is a noble Fellow, of a sweet Spirit, Now must I think how to contrive this matter, For together they shall go. _Enter_ Dinant. _Din._ O _Cleremont_, I am glad I have found thee. _Cler._ I can tell thee rare things. _Din._ O, I can tell thee rarer, Dost thou love me? _Cler._ Love thee? _Din._ Dost thou love me dearly? Dar'st thou for my sake? _Cler._ Any thing that's honest. _Din._ Though it be dangerous? _Cler._ Pox o' dangerous. _Din._ Nay wondrous dangerous. _Cler._ Wilt thou break my heart? _Din._ Along with me then. _Cler._ I must part to morrow. _Din._ You shall, you shall, be faithful for this night, And thou hast made thy friend. _Cler._ Away, and talk not. [_Exeunt._ _Enter_ Lamira, _and Nurse_. _Lam._ O Nurse, welcome, where's _Dinant_? _Nurse._ He's at my back. 'Tis the most liberal Gentleman, this Gold He gave me for my pains, nor can I blame you, If you yield up the fort. _Lam._ How? yield it up? _Nurse._ I know not, he that loves, and gives so largely, And a young Lord to boot, or I am cozen'd, May enter every where. _Lam._ Thou'lt make me angry. _Enter_ Dinant, _and_ Cleremont. _Nur._ Why, if you are, I hope here's one will please you, Look on him with my Eyes, good luck go with you: Were I young for your sake-- _Din._ I thank thee, Nurse. _Nur._ I would be tractable, and as I am-- _Lam._ Leave the room, So old, and so immodest! and be careful, Since whispers will 'wake sleeping jealousies, That none disturb my Lord. [_Exit Nurse._ _Cler._ Will you dispatch? Till you come to the matter be not rapt thus, Walk in, walk in, I am your scout for once, You owe me the like service. _Din._ And will pay it. _Lam._ As you respect our lives, speak not so loud. _Cler._ Why, do it in dumb shew then, I am silenc'd. _Lam._ Be not so hasty, Sir, the golden Apples Had a fell Dragon for their Guard, your pleasures Are to be attempted with _Herculean_ danger, Or never to be gotten. _Din._ Speak the means. _Lam._ Thus briefly, my Lord sleeps now, and alas, Each Night, he only sleeps. _Cler._ Go, keep her stirring. _Lam._ Now if he 'wake, as sometimes he does, He only stretches out his hand and feels, Whether I am a bed, which being assur'd of, He sleeps again; but should he miss me, Valour Could not defend our lives. _Din._ What's to be done then? _Lam._ Servants have servile faiths, nor have I any That I dare trust; on noble _Cleremont_ We safely may rely. _Cler._ What man can do, Command and boldly. _Lam._ Thus then in my place, You must lye with my Lord. _Cler._ With an old man? Two Beards together, that's preposterous. _Lam._ There is no other way, and though 'tis dangerous, He having servants within call, and arm'd too, Slaves fed to act all that his jealousie And rage commands them, yet a true friend should not Check at the hazard of a life. _Cler._ I thank you, I love my friend, but know no reason why To hate my self; to be a kind of pander, You see I am willing, But to betray mine own throat you must pardon. _Din._ Then I am lost, and all my hopes defeated, Were I to hazard ten times more for you, You should find, _Cleremont_-- _Cler._ You shall not outdo me, Fall what may fall, I'll do't. _Din._ But for his Beard-- _Lam._ To cover that you shall have my night Linnen, And you dispos'd of, my _Dinant_ and I Will have some private conference. _Enter_ Champernel, _privately_. _Cler._ Private doing, Or I'll not venture. _Lam._ That's as we agree. [_Exeunt._ _Enter Nurse, and_ Charlotte, _pass over the Stage with Pillows, Night cloaths, and such things_. _Cham._ What can this Woman do, preserving her honour? I have given her all the liberty that may be, I will not be far off though, nor I will not be jealous, Nor trust too much, I think she is vertuous, Yet when I hold her best, she's but a Woman, As full of frailty as of faith, a poor sleight Woman, And her best thoughts, but weak fortifications, There may be a Mine wrought: Well, let 'em work then, I shall meet with it, till the signs be monstrous, And stick upon my head, I will not believe it, [_Stands private._ She may be, and she may not, now to my observation. _Enter_ Dinant, _and_ Lamira. _Din._ Why do you make me stay so? if you love me-- _Lam._ You are too hot and violent. _Din._ Why do you shift thus From one Chamber to another? _Lam._ A little delay, Sir, Like fire, a little sprinkled o'r with water Makes the desires burn clear, and ten times hotter. _Din._ Why do you speak so loud? I pray'e go in, Sweet Mistriss, I am mad, time steals away, And when we would enjoy-- _Lam._ Now fie, fie, Servant, Like sensual Beasts shall we enjoy our pleasures? _Din._ 'Pray do not kiss me then. _Lam._ Why, that I will, and you shall find anon, servant. _Din._ Softly, for heavens sake, you know my friend's engag'd, A little now, now; will ye go in again? _Lam._ Ha, ha, ha, ha. _Din._ Why do you laugh so loud, Precious? Will you betray me; ha' my friends throat cut? _Lam._ Come, come, I'll kiss thee again. _Cham._ Will you so? you are liberal, If you do cozen me-- _Enter Nurse with Wine._ _Din._ What's this? _Lam._ Wine, Wine, a draught or two. _Din._ What does this Woman here? _Lam._ She shall not hinder you. _Din._ This might have been spar'd, 'Tis but delay and time lost; pray send her softly off. _Lam._ Sit down, and mix your spirits with Wine, I will make you another _Hercules_. _Din._ I dare not drink; Fie, what delays you make! I dare not, I shall be drunk presently, and do strange things then. _Lam._ Not drink a cup with your Mistriss! O the pleasure. _Din._ Lady, why this? [_Musick._ _Lam._ We must have mirth to our Wine, Man. _Din._ Pl---- o' the Musick. _Champ._ God-a-mercy Wench, If thou dost cuckold me I shall forgive thee. _Din._ The house will all rise now, this will disturb all. Did you do this? _Lam._ Peace, and sit quiet, fool, You love me, come, sit down and drink. _Enter_ Cleremont _above_. _Cler._ What a Devil ail you? How cold I sweat! a hogs pox stop your pipes, [_Musick._ The thing will 'wake; now, now, methinks I find His Sword just gliding through my throat. What's that? A vengeance choak your pipes. Are you there, Lady? Stop, stop those Rascals; do you bring me hither To be cut into minced meat? why _Dinant_? _Din._ I cannot do withal; I have spoke, and spoke; I am betray'd and lost too. _Cler._ Do you hear me? do you understand me? 'Plague dam your Whistles. [_Musick ends._ _Lam._ 'Twas but an over-sight, they have done, lye down. _Cler._ Would you had done too, You know not In what a misery and fear I lye. You have a Lady in your arms. _Din._ I would have-- [_The Recorders again._ _Champ._ I'll watch you Goodman Wou'd have. _Cler._ Remove for Heavens sake, And fall to that you come for. _Lam._ Lie you down, 'Tis but an hours endurance now. _Cler._ I dare not, softly sweet Lady ----heart? _Lam._ 'Tis nothing but your fear, he sleeps still soundly, Lie gently down. _Cler._ 'Pray make an end. _Din._ Come, Madam. _Lam._ These Chambers are too near. [_Ex._ Din. Lam. _Cham._ I shall be nearer; Well, go thy wayes, I'le trust thee through the world, Deal how thou wilt: that that I never feel, I'le never fear. Yet by the honour of a Souldier, I hold thee truly noble: How these things will look, And how their blood will curdle! Play on Children, You shall have pap anon. O thou grand Fool, That thou knew'st but thy fortune-- [_Musick done._ _Cler._ Peace, good Madam, Stop her mouth, _Dinant_, it sleeps yet, 'pray be wary, Dispatch, I cannot endure this misery, I can hear nothing more; I'll say my prayers, And down again-- [_Whistle within._ A thousand Alarms fall upon my quarters, Heaven send me off; when I lye keeping Courses. Pl---- o' your fumbling, _Dinant_; how I shake! 'Tis still again: would I were in the _Indies_. [_Exit_ Cler. _Enter_ Dinant, _and_ Lamira: _a light within_. _Din._ Why do you use me thus? thus poorly? basely? Work me into a hope, and then destroy me? Why did you send for me? this new way train me? _Lam._ Mad-man, and fool, and false man, now I'll shew thee. _Din._ 'Pray put your light out. _Lam._ Nay I'll hold it thus, That all chaste Eyes may see thy lust, and scorn it. Tell me but this when you first doted on me, And made suit to enjoy me as your Wife, Did you not hold me honest? _Din._ Yes, most vertuous. _Lam._ And did not that appear the only lustre That made me worth your love and admiration? _Din._ I must confess-- _Lam._ Why would you deal so basely? So like a thief, a Villain? _Din._ Peace, good Madam. _Lam._ I'll speak aloud too; thus maliciously, Thus breaking all the Rules of honesty, Of honour and of truth, for which I lov'd you, For which I call'd you servant, and admir'd you; To steal that Jewel purchas'd by another, Piously set in Wedlock, even that Jewel, Because it had no flaw, you held unvaluable: Can he that has lov'd good, dote on the Devil? For he that seeks a Whore, seeks but his Agent; Or am I of so wild and low a blood? So nurs'd in infamies? _Din._ I do not think so, And I repent. _Lam._ That will not serve your turn, Sir. _Din._ It was your treaty drew me on. _Lam._ But it was your villany Made you pursue it; I drew you but to try How much a man, and nobly thou durst stand, How well you had deserv'd the name of vertuous; But you like a wild torrent, mix'd with all Beastly and base affections came floating on, Swelling your poyson'd billows-- _Din._ Will you betray me? _Lam._ To all the miseries a vext Woman may. _Din._ Let me but out, Give me but room to toss my Sword about me, And I will tell you y'are a treacherous woman, O that I had but words! _Lam._ They will not serve you. _Din._ But two-edg'd words to cut thee; a Lady traytor? Perish by a proud Puppet? I did you too much honour, To tender you my love, too much respected you To think you worthy of my worst embraces. Go take your Groom, and let him dally with you, Your greasie Groom; I scorn to imp your lame stock, You are not fair, nor handsome, I lyed loudly, This tongue abus'd you when it spoke you beauteous. _Lam._ 'Tis very well, 'tis brave. _Din._ Put out your light, Your lascivious eyes are flames enough For Fools to find you out; a Lady Plotter! Must I begin your sacrifice of mischief? I and my friend, the first-fruits of that bloud, You and your honourable Husband aim at? Crooked and wretched you are both. _Lam._ To you, Sir, Yet to the Eye of Justice straight as Truth. _Din._ Is this a womans love? a womans mercy? Do you profess this seriously? do you laugh at me? _Lam._ Ha, ha. _Din._ Pl---- light upon your scorns, upon your flatteries, Upon your tempting faces, all destructions; A bedrid winter hang upon your cheeks, And blast, blast, blast those buds of Pride that paint you; Death in your eyes to fright men from these dangers: Raise up your trophy, _Cleremont_. _Cler._ What a vengeance ail you? _Din._ What dismal noise! is there no honour in you? _Cleremont_, we are betrayed, betrayed, sold by a woman; Deal bravely for thy self. _Cler._ This comes of rutting; Are we made stales to one another? _Din._ Yes, we are undone, lost. _Cler._ You shall pay for't grey-beard. Up, up, you sleep your last else. {_Lights above, two Servants {and_ Anabel. _1 Serv._ No, not yet, Sir, Lady, look up, would you have wrong'd this Beauty? Wake so tender a Virgin with rough terms? You wear a Sword, we must entreat you leave it. _2 Serv._ Fye Sir, so sweet a Lady? _Cler._ Was this my bed-fellow, pray give me leave to look, I am not mad yet, I may be by and by. Did this lye by me? Did I fear this? is this a Cause to shake at? Away with me for shame, I am a Rascal. _Enter_ Champernel, Beaupre, Verdone, Lamira, Anabel, Cleremont, _and two Servants_. _Din._ I am amaz'd too. _Beaup._ We'll recover you. _Verd._ You walk like _Robin-good-fellow_ all the house over, And every man afraid of you. _Din._ 'Tis well, Lady; The honour of this deed will be your own, The world shall know your bounty. _Beaup._ What shall we do with 'em? _Cler._ Geld me, For 'tis not fit I should be a man again, I am an Ass, a Dog. _Lam._ Take your revenges, You know my Husbands wrongs and your own losses. _Anab._ A brave man, an admirable brave man; Well, well, I would not be so tryed again; A very handsome proper Gentleman. _Cler._ Will you let me lye by her but one hour more, And then hang me? _Din._ We wait your malice, put your swords home bravely, You have reason to seek bloud. _Lam._ Not as you are noble. _Cham._ Hands off, and give them liberty, only disarm 'em. _Beaup._ We have done that already. _Cham._ You are welcome, Gentlemen, I am glad my house has any pleasure for you, I keep a couple of Ladies here, they say fair, And you are young and handsome, Gentlemen; Have you any more mind to Wenches? _Cler._ To be abus'd too? Lady, you might have help'd this. _Ana._ Sir now 'tis past, but 't may be I may stand Your friend hereafter, in a greater matter. _Cler._ Never whilst you live. _Ana._ You cannot tell--now, Sir, a parting hand. _Cler._ Down and Roses: Well I may live to see you again. A dull Rogue, No revelation in thee. _Lam._ Were you well frighted? Were your fitts from the heart, of all colds and colours? That's all your punishment. _Cler._ It might have been all yours, Had not a block-head undertaken it. _Cham._ Your swords you must leave to these Gentlemen. _Verd._ And now, when you dare fight, We are on even Ice again. _Din._ 'Tis well: To be a Mistris, is to be a monster, And so I leave your house, and you for ever. _Lam._ Leave your wild lusts, and then you are a master. _Cham._ You may depart too. _Cler._ I had rather stay here. _Cham._ Faith we shall fright you worse. _Cler._ Not in that manner, There's five hundred Crowns, fright me but so again. _Din._ Come _Cleremont_, this is the hour of fool. _Cler._ Wiser the next shall be or we'll to School. [_Exeunt._ _Champ._ How coolly these hot gallants are departed! Faith Cousin, 'twas unconscionably done, To lye so still, and so long. _Anab._ 'Twas your pleasure, If 'twere a fault, I may hereafter mend. _Champ._ O my best Wife, Take now what course thou wilt, and lead what life. _Lam._ The more trust you commit, the more care still, Goodness and vertue shall attend my will. _Cham._ Let's laugh this night out now, and count our gains. We have our honours home, and they their pains. [_Exeunt omnes._ _Actus Quartus. Scena Prima._ _Enter_ Cleremont, Dinant. _Din._ It holds, they will go thither. _Cler._ To their Summer-house? _Din._ Thither i'th' evening, and which is the most infliction, Only to insult upon our miseries. _Cler._ Are you provided? _Din._ Yes, yes. _Cler._ Throughly? _Din._ Throughly. _Cler._ Basta, enough, I have your mind, I will not fail you. _Din._ At such an hour. _Cler._ Have I a memory? A Cause, and Will to do? thou art so sullen-- _Din._ And shall be, till I have a fair reparation. _Cler._ I have more reason, for I scaped a fortune, Which if I come so near again: I say nothing, But if I sweat not in another fashion-- O, a delicate Wench. _Din._ 'Tis certain a most handsome one. _Cler._ And me thought the thing was angry with it self too It lay so long conceal'd, but I must part with you, I have a scene of mirth, to drive this from my heart, And my hour is come. _Din._ Miss not your time. _Cler._ I dare not. [_Exeunt severally._ _Enter_ Sampson, _and a Gentleman_. _Gent._ I presume, Sir, you now need no instruction, But fairly know, what belongs to a Gentleman; You bear your Uncles cause. _Sam._ Do not disturb me, I understand my cause, and the right carriage. _Gent._ Be not too bloody. _Sam._ As I find my enemy; if his sword bite, If it bite, Sir, you must pardon me. _Gent._ No doubt he is valiant, He durst not undertake else, _Sam._ He's most welcome, As he is most valiant, he were no man for me else. _Gent._ But say he should relent. _Sam._ He dies relenting, I cannot help it, he must di[e] relenting, If he pray, praying, _ipso facto_, praying, Your honourable way admits no prayer, And if he fight, he falls, there's his _quietus_. _Gent._ Y'are nobly punctual, let's retire and meet 'em, But still, I say, have mercy. _Samp._ I say, honour. [_Exeunt._ _Enter_ Champernel, Lamira, Anabel, Beaupre, Verdone, Charlote _and a Servant_. _Lam._ Will not you go sweet-heart? _Champ._ Go? I'le fly with thee. I stay behind? _Lam._ My Father will be there too, And all our best friends. _Beau._ And if we be not merry, We have hard luck, Lady. _Verd._ Faith let's have a kind of play. _Cham._ What shall it be? _Verd._ The story of _Dinant_. _Lam._ With the merry conceits of _Cleremont_, His Fits and Feavers. _Ana._ But I'le lie still no more. _Lam._ That, as you make the Play, 'twill be rare sport, And how 'twill vex my gallants, when they hear it! Have you given order for the Coach? _Charl._ Yes, Madam. _Cham._ My easie Nag, and padd. _Serv._ 'Tis making ready. _Champ._ Where are your Horses? _Beau._ Ready at an hour, Sir: we'll not be last. _Cham._ Fie, what a night shall we have! A roaring, merry night. _Lam._ We'll flie at all, Sir. _Cham._ I'le flie at thee too, finely, and so ruffle thee, I'le try your Art upon a Country pallet. _Lam._ Brag not too much, for fear I should expect it, Then if you fail-- _Cham._ Thou saiest too true, we all talk.

knave

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

villain, (But yet no coward) and sollicites me To my dishonour, that's indeed a quarrel, And truly mine, which I will so revenge, As it shall fright such as dare only think To be adulterers. _Cham._ Use thine own waies, I give up all to thee. _Beau._ O women, women! When you are pleas'd you are the least of evils. _Verd._ I'le rime to't, but provokt, the worst of Devils. [_Exeunt._ _Enter Monsieur_ Sampson, _and three Clients_. _Samp._ I know Monsieur _La-writ_. _1 Cly._ Would he knew himself, Sir. _Samp._ He was a pretty Lawyer, a kind of pretty Lawyer, Of a kind of unable thing. _2 Cly._ A fine Lawyer, Sir, And would have firk'd you up a business, And out of this Court into that. _Samp._ Ye are too forward Not so fine my friends, something he could have done, But short short. _1 Cly._ I know your worships favour, You are Nephew to the Judge, Sir. _Samp._ It may be so, And something may be done, without trotting i'th' dirt, friends; It may be I can take him in his Chamber, And have an hours talk, it may be so, And tell him that in's ear; there are such courtesies; I will not say, I can. _3 Cly._ We know you can, Sir. _Sam._ Peradventure I, peradventure no: but where's _La-writ_? Where's your sufficient Lawyer? _1 Cly._ He's blown up, Sir. _2 Cly._ Run mad and quarrels with the Dog he meets; He is no Lawyer of this world now. _Sam._ Your reason? Is he defunct? is he dead? _2 Cly._ No he's not dead yet, Sir; But I would be loth to take a lease on's life for two hours: Alas, he is possest Sir, with the spirit of fighting And quarrels with all people; but how he came to it-- _Samp._ If he fight well and like a Gentleman, The man may fight, for 'tis a lawfull calling. Look you my friends, I am a civil Gentleman, And my Lord my Uncle loves me. _3 Cly._ We all know it, Sir. _Sam._ I think he does, Sir, I have business too, much business, Turn you some forty or fifty Causes in a week; Yet when I get an hour of vacancie, I can fight too my friends, a little does well, I would be loth to learn to fight. _1 Cly._ But and't please you Sir, His fighting has neglected all our business, We are undone, our causes cast away, Sir, His not appearance. _Sam._ There he fought too long, A little and fight well, he fought too long indeed friends; But ne'r the less things must be as they may, And there be wayes-- _1 Cly._ We know, Sir, if you please-- _Sam._ Something I'le do: goe rally up your Causes. _Enter_ La-writ, _and a_ Gentleman, _at the door_. _2 Cly._ Now you may behold Sir, And be a witness, whether we lie or no. _La-writ._ I'le meet you at the Ordinary, sweet Gentlemen, And if there be a wench or two-- _Gen._ We'll have 'em. _La-writ._ No handling any Duells before I come, We'll have no going else, I hate a coward. _Gent._ There shall be nothing done. _La-writ._ Make all the quarrels You can devise before I come, and let's all fight, There is no sport else. _Gent._ We'll see what may be done, Sir. _1 Cly._ Ha? Monsieur _La-writ_. _La-writ._ Baffled in way of business, My causes cast away, Judgement against us? Why there it goes. _2 Cly._ What shall we do the whilst Sir? _La-wr._ Breed new dissentions, goe hang your selves 'Tis all one to me; I have a new trade of living. _1 Cli._ Do you hear what he saies Sir? _Sam._ The Gentleman speaks finely. _La-wr._ Will any of you fight? Fighting's my occupation If you find your selves aggriev'd. _Sam._ A compleat Gentleman. _La-writ._ Avant thou buckram budget of petitions, Thou spittle of lame causes; I lament for thee, And till revenge be taken-- _Sam._ 'Tis most excellent. _La-wr._ There, every man chuse his paper, and his place. I'le answer ye all, I will neglect no mans business But he shall have satisfaction like a Gentleman, The Judge may do and not do, he's but a Monsieur. _Sam._ You have nothing of mine in your bag, Sir. _La-writ._ I know not Sir, But you may put any thing in, any fighting thing. _Sam._ It is sufficient, you may hear hereafter. _La-writ._ I rest your servant Sir. _Sam._ No more words Gentlemen But follow me, no more words as you love me, The Gentleman's a noble Gentleman. I shall do what I can, and then-- _Cli._ We thank you Sir. [_Ex._ Sam. _and_ Clients. _Sam._ Not a word to disturb him, he's a Gentleman. _La-writ._ No cause go o' my side? the judge cast all? And because I was honourably employed in action, And not appear'd, pronounce? 'tis very well, 'Tis well faith, 'tis well, Judge. _Enter_ Cleremont. _Cler._ Who have we here? My little furious Lawyer? _La-writ._ I say 'tis well, But mark the end. _Cler._ How he is metamorphos'd! Nothing of Lawyer left, not a bit of buckram, No solliciting face now, This is no simple conversion. Your servant Sir, and Friend. _La-writ._ You come in time, Sir, _Cler._ The happier man, to be at your command then. _La-writ._ You may wonder to see me thus; but that's all one, Time shall declare; 'tis true I was a Lawyer, But I have mew'd that coat, I hate a Lawyer, I talk'd much in the Court, now I hate talking, I did you the office of a man. _Cler._ I must confess it. _La-w._ And budg'd not, no I budg'd not. _Cler._ No, you did not. _La-w._ There's it then, one good turn requires another. _Cler._ Most willing Sir, I am ready at your service. _La-w._ There, read, and understand, and then deliver it. _Cler._ This is a Challenge, Sir, _La-w._ 'Tis very like, Sir, I seldom now write Sonnets. _Cler._ _O admirantis_, To Monsieur _Vertaign_, the President. _La-w._ I chuse no Fool, Sir. _Cler._ Why, he's no Sword-man, Sir. _La-w._ Let him learn, let him learn, Time, that trains Chickens up, will teach him quickly. _Cler._ Why, he's a Judge, an Old Man. _La-w._ Never too Old To be a Gentleman; and he that is a Judge Can judge best what belongs to wounded honour. There are my griefs, he has cast away my causes, In which he has bowed my reputation. And therefore Judge, or no Judge. _Cler._ 'Pray be rul'd Sir, This is the maddest thing-- _La-w._ You will not carry it. _Cler._ I do not tell you so, but if you may be perswaded. _La-w._ You know how you us'd me when I would not fight, Do you remember, Gentleman? _Cler._ The Devil's in him. _La-w._ I see it in your Eyes, that you dare do it, You have a carrying face, and you shall carry it. _Cler._ The least is Banishment. _La-w._ Be banish'd then; 'Tis a friends part, we'll meet in _Africa_, Or any part of the Earth. _Cler._ Say he will not fight. _La-w._ I know then what to say, take you no care, Sir, _Cler._ Well, I will carry it, and deliver it, And to morrow morning meet you in the Louver, Till when, my service. _La-w._ A Judge, or no Judge, no Judge. [_Exit_ La-writ. _Cler._ This is the prettiest Rogue that e'r I read of, None to provoke to th' field, but the old President; What face shall I put on? if I come in earnest, I am sure to wear a pair of Bracelets; This may make some sport yet, I will deliver it, Here comes the President. _Enter_ Vertaign, _with two Gentlemen_. _Vert._ I shall find time, Gentlemen, To do your causes good, is not that _Cleremont_? _1 Gent._ 'Tis he my Lord. _Vert._ Why does he smile upon me? Am I become ridiculous? has your fortune, Sir, Upon my Son, made you contemn his Father? The glory of a Gentleman is fair bearing. _Cler._ Mistake me not my Lord, you shall not find that, I come with no blown Spirit to abuse you, I know your place and honour due unto it, The reverence to your silver Age and Vertue. _Vert._ Your face is merry still. _Cler._ So is my business, And I beseech your honour mistake me not, I have brought you from a wild or rather Mad-man As mad a piece of--you were wont to love mirth In your young days, I have known your Honour woo it, This may be made no little one, 'tis a Challenge, Sir, Nay, start not, I beseech you, it means you no harm, Nor any Man of Honour, or Understanding, 'Tis to steal from your serious hours a little laughter; I am bold to bring it to your Lordship. _Vert._ 'Tis to me indeed: Do they take me for a Sword-man at these years? _Cler._ 'Tis only worth your Honours Mirth, that's all Sir, 'Thad been in me else a sawcy rudeness. _Vert._ From one _La-writ_, a very punctual Challenge. _Cler._ But if your Lordship mark it, no great matter. _Vert._ I have known such a wrangling Advocate, Such a little figent thing; Oh I remember him, A notable talking Knave, now out upon him, Has challeng'd me downright, defied me mortally I do remember too, I cast his Causes. _Cler._ Why, there's the quarrel, Sir, the mortal quarrel. _Vert._ Why, what a Knave is this? as y'are a Gentleman, Is there no further purpose but meer mirth? What a bold Man of War! he invites me roundly. _Cler._ If there should be, I were no Gentleman, Nor worthy of the honour of my Kindred. And though I am sure your Lordship hates my Person, Which Time may bring again into your favour, Yet for the manners-- _Vert._ I am satisfied, You see, Sir, I have out-liv'd those days of fighting, And therefore cannot do him the honour to beat him my self; But I have a Kinsman much of his ability, His Wit and Courage, for this call him Fool, One that will spit as senseless fire as this Fellow. _Cler._ And such a man to undertake, my Lord? _Vert._ Nay he's too forward; these two pitch Barrels together. _Cler._ Upon my soul, no harm. _Vert._ It makes me smile, Why, what a stinking smother will they utter! Yes, he shall undertake, Sir, as my Champion, Since you propound it mirth, I'll venture on it, And shall defend my cause, but as y'are honest Sport not with bloud. _Cler._ Think not so basely, good Sir. _Vert._ A Squire shall wait upon you from my Kinsman, To morrow morning make you sport at full, You want no Subject; but no wounds. _Cler._ That's my care. _Ver._ And so good day. [_Ex._ Vertaign, _and Gentlemen_. _Cler._ Many unto your honour. This is a noble Fellow, of a sweet Spirit, Now must I think how to contrive this matter, For together they shall go. _Enter_ Dinant. _Din._ O _Cleremont_, I am glad I have found thee. _Cler._ I can tell thee rare things. _Din._ O, I can tell thee rarer, Dost thou love me? _Cler._ Love thee? _Din._ Dost thou love me dearly? Dar'st thou for my sake? _Cler._ Any thing that's honest. _Din._ Though it be dangerous? _Cler._ Pox o' dangerous. _Din._ Nay wondrous dangerous. _Cler._ Wilt thou break my heart? _Din._ Along with me then. _Cler._ I must part to morrow. _Din._ You shall, you shall, be faithful for this night, And thou hast made thy friend. _Cler._ Away, and talk not. [_Exeunt._ _Enter_ Lamira, _and Nurse_. _Lam._ O Nurse, welcome, where's _Dinant_? _Nurse._ He's at my back. 'Tis the most liberal Gentleman, this Gold He gave me for my pains, nor can I blame you, If you yield up the fort. _Lam._ How? yield it up? _Nurse._ I know not, he that loves, and gives so largely, And a young Lord to boot, or I am cozen'd, May enter every where. _Lam._ Thou'lt make me angry. _Enter_ Dinant, _and_ Cleremont. _Nur._ Why, if you are, I hope here's one will please you, Look on him with my Eyes, good luck go with you: Were I young for your sake-- _Din._ I thank thee, Nurse. _Nur._ I would be tractable, and as I am-- _Lam._ Leave the room, So old, and so immodest! and be careful, Since whispers will 'wake sleeping jealousies, That none disturb my Lord. [_Exit Nurse._ _Cler._ Will you dispatch? Till you come to the matter be not rapt thus, Walk in, walk in, I am your scout for once, You owe me the like service. _Din._ And will pay it. _Lam._ As you respect our lives, speak not so loud. _Cler._ Why, do it in dumb shew then, I am silenc'd. _Lam._ Be not so hasty, Sir, the golden Apples Had a fell Dragon for their Guard, your pleasures Are to be attempted with _Herculean_ danger, Or never to be gotten. _Din._ Speak the means. _Lam._ Thus briefly, my Lord sleeps now, and alas, Each Night, he only sleeps. _Cler._ Go, keep her stirring. _Lam._ Now if he 'wake, as sometimes he does, He only stretches out his hand and feels, Whether I am a bed, which being assur'd of, He sleeps again; but should he miss me, Valour Could not defend our lives. _Din._ What's to be done then? _Lam._ Servants have servile faiths, nor have I any That I dare trust; on noble _Cleremont_ We safely may rely. _Cler._ What man can do, Command and boldly. _Lam._ Thus then in my place, You must lye with my Lord. _Cler._ With an old man? Two Beards together, that's preposterous. _Lam._ There is no other way, and though 'tis dangerous, He having servants within call, and arm'd too, Slaves fed to act all that his jealousie And rage commands them, yet a true friend should not Check at the hazard of a life. _Cler._ I thank you, I love my friend, but know no reason why To hate my self; to be a kind of pander, You see I am willing, But to betray mine own throat you must pardon. _Din._ Then I am lost, and all my hopes defeated, Were I to hazard ten times more for you, You should find, _Cleremont_-- _Cler._ You shall not outdo me, Fall what may fall, I'll do't. _Din._ But for his Beard-- _Lam._ To cover that you shall have my night Linnen, And you dispos'd of, my _Dinant_ and I Will have some private conference. _Enter_ Champernel, _privately_. _Cler._ Private doing, Or I'll not venture. _Lam._ That's as we agree. [_Exeunt._ _Enter Nurse, and_ Charlotte, _pass over the Stage with Pillows, Night cloaths, and such things_. _Cham._ What can this Woman do, preserving her honour? I have given her all the liberty that may be, I will not be far off though, nor I will not be jealous, Nor trust too much, I think she is vertuous, Yet when I hold her best, she's but a Woman, As full of frailty as of faith, a poor sleight Woman, And her best thoughts, but weak fortifications, There may be a Mine wrought: Well, let 'em work then, I shall meet with it, till the signs be monstrous, And stick upon my head, I will not believe it, [_Stands private._ She may be, and she may not, now to my observation. _Enter_ Dinant, _and_ Lamira. _Din._ Why do you make me stay so? if you love me-- _Lam._ You are too hot and violent. _Din._ Why do you shift thus From one Chamber to another? _Lam._ A little delay, Sir, Like fire, a little sprinkled o'r with water Makes the desires burn clear, and ten times hotter. _Din._ Why do you speak so loud? I pray'e go in, Sweet Mistriss, I am mad, time steals away, And when we would enjoy-- _Lam._ Now fie, fie, Servant, Like sensual Beasts shall we enjoy our pleasures? _Din._ 'Pray do not kiss me then. _Lam._ Why, that I will, and you shall find anon, servant. _Din._ Softly, for heavens sake, you know my friend's engag'd, A little now, now; will ye go in again? _Lam._ Ha, ha, ha, ha. _Din._ Why do you laugh so loud, Precious? Will you betray me; ha' my friends throat cut? _Lam._ Come, come, I'll kiss thee again. _Cham._ Will you so? you are liberal, If you do cozen me-- _Enter Nurse with Wine._ _Din._ What's this? _Lam._ Wine, Wine, a draught or two. _Din._ What does this Woman here? _Lam._ She shall not hinder you. _Din._ This might have been spar'd, 'Tis but delay and time lost; pray send her softly off. _Lam._ Sit down, and mix your spirits with Wine, I will make you another _Hercules_. _Din._ I dare not drink; Fie, what delays you make! I dare not, I shall be drunk presently, and do strange things then. _Lam._ Not drink a cup with your Mistriss! O the pleasure. _Din._ Lady, why this? [_Musick._ _Lam._ We must have mirth to our Wine, Man. _Din._ Pl---- o' the Musick. _Champ._ God-a-mercy Wench, If thou dost cuckold me I shall forgive thee. _Din._ The house will all rise now, this will disturb all. Did you do this? _Lam._ Peace, and sit quiet, fool, You love me, come, sit down and drink. _Enter_ Cleremont _above_. _Cler._ What a Devil ail you? How cold I sweat! a hogs pox stop your pipes, [_Musick._ The thing will 'wake; now, now, methinks I find His Sword just gliding through my throat. What's that? A vengeance choak your pipes. Are you there, Lady? Stop, stop those Rascals; do you bring me hither To be cut into minced meat? why _Dinant_? _Din._ I cannot do withal; I have spoke, and spoke; I am betray'd and lost too. _Cler._ Do you hear me? do you understand me? 'Plague dam your Whistles. [_Musick ends._ _Lam._ 'Twas but an over-sight, they have done, lye down. _Cler._ Would you had done too, You know not In what a misery and fear I lye. You have a Lady in your arms. _Din._ I would have-- [_The Recorders again._ _Champ._ I'll watch you Goodman Wou'd have. _Cler._ Remove for Heavens sake, And fall to that you come for. _Lam._ Lie you down, 'Tis but an hours endurance now. _Cler._ I dare not, softly sweet Lady ----heart? _Lam._ 'Tis nothing but your fear, he sleeps still soundly, Lie gently down. _Cler._ 'Pray make an end. _Din._ Come, Madam. _Lam._ These Chambers are too near. [_Ex._ Din. Lam. _Cham._ I shall be nearer; Well, go thy wayes, I'le trust thee through the world, Deal how thou wilt: that that I never feel, I'le never fear. Yet by the honour of a Souldier, I hold thee truly noble: How these things will look, And how their blood will curdle! Play on Children, You shall have pap anon. O thou grand Fool, That thou knew'st but thy fortune-- [_Musick done._ _Cler._ Peace, good Madam, Stop her mouth, _Dinant_, it sleeps yet, 'pray be wary, Dispatch, I cannot endure this misery, I can hear nothing more; I'll say my prayers, And down again-- [_Whistle within._ A thousand Alarms fall upon my quarters, Heaven send me off; when I lye keeping Courses. Pl---- o' your fumbling, _Dinant_; how I shake! 'Tis still again: would I were in the _Indies_. [_Exit_ Cler. _Enter_ Dinant, _and_ Lamira: _a light within_. _Din._ Why do you use me thus? thus poorly? basely? Work me into a hope, and then destroy me? Why did you send for me? this new way train me? _Lam._ Mad-man, and fool, and false man, now I'll shew thee. _Din._ 'Pray put your light out. _Lam._ Nay I'll hold it thus, That all chaste Eyes may see thy lust, and scorn it. Tell me but this when you first doted on me, And made suit to enjoy me as your Wife, Did you not hold me honest? _Din._ Yes, most vertuous. _Lam._ And did not that appear the only lustre That made me worth your love and admiration? _Din._ I must confess-- _Lam._ Why would you deal so basely? So like a thief, a Villain? _Din._ Peace, good Madam. _Lam._ I'll speak aloud too; thus maliciously, Thus breaking all the Rules of honesty, Of honour and of truth, for which I lov'd you, For which I call'd you servant, and admir'd you; To steal that Jewel purchas'd by another, Piously set in Wedlock, even that Jewel, Because it had no flaw, you held unvaluable: Can he that has lov'd good, dote on the Devil? For he that seeks a Whore, seeks but his Agent; Or am I of so wild and low a blood? So nurs'd in infamies? _Din._ I do not think so, And I repent. _Lam._ That will not serve your turn, Sir. _Din._ It was your treaty drew me on. _Lam._ But it was your villany Made you pursue it; I drew you but to try How much a man, and nobly thou durst stand, How well you had deserv'd the name of vertuous; But you like a wild torrent, mix'd with all Beastly and base affections came floating on, Swelling your poyson'd billows-- _Din._ Will you betray me? _Lam._ To all the miseries a vext Woman may. _Din._ Let me but out, Give me but room to toss my Sword about me, And I will tell you y'are a treacherous woman, O that I had but words! _Lam._ They will not serve you. _Din._ But two-edg'd words to cut thee; a Lady traytor? Perish by a proud Puppet? I did you too much honour, To tender you my love, too much respected you To think you worthy of my worst embraces. Go take your Groom, and let him dally with you, Your greasie Groom; I scorn to imp your lame stock, You are not fair, nor handsome, I lyed loudly, This tongue abus'd you when it spoke you beauteous. _Lam._ 'Tis very well, 'tis brave. _Din._ Put out your light, Your lascivious eyes are flames enough For Fools to find you out; a Lady Plotter! Must I begin your sacrifice of mischief? I and my friend, the first-fruits of that bloud, You and your honourable Husband aim at? Crooked and wretched you are both. _Lam._ To you, Sir, Yet to the Eye of Justice straight as Truth. _Din._ Is this a womans love? a womans mercy? Do you profess this seriously? do you laugh at me? _Lam._ Ha, ha. _Din._ Pl---- light upon your scorns, upon your flatteries, Upon your tempting faces, all destructions; A bedrid winter hang upon your cheeks, And blast, blast, blast those buds of Pride that paint you; Death in your eyes to fright men from these dangers: Raise up your trophy, _Cleremont_. _Cler._ What a vengeance ail you? _Din._ What dismal noise! is there no honour in you? _Cleremont_, we are betrayed, betrayed, sold by a woman; Deal bravely for thy self. _Cler._ This comes of rutting; Are we made stales to one another? _Din._ Yes, we are undone, lost. _Cler._ You shall pay for't grey-beard. Up, up, you sleep your last else. {_Lights above, two Servants {and_ Anabel. _1 Serv._ No, not yet, Sir, Lady, look up, would you have wrong'd this Beauty? Wake so tender a Virgin with rough terms? You wear a Sword, we must entreat you leave it. _2 Serv._ Fye Sir, so sweet a Lady? _Cler._ Was this my bed-fellow, pray give me leave to look, I am not mad yet, I may be by and by. Did this lye by me? Did I fear this? is this a Cause to shake at? Away with me for shame, I am a Rascal. _Enter_ Champernel, Beaupre, Verdone, Lamira, Anabel, Cleremont, _and two Servants_. _Din._ I am amaz'd too. _Beaup._ We'll recover you. _Verd._ You walk like _Robin-good-fellow_ all the house over, And every man afraid of you. _Din._ 'Tis well, Lady; The honour of this deed will be your own, The world shall know your bounty. _Beaup._ What shall we do with 'em? _Cler._ Geld me, For 'tis not fit I should be a man again, I am an Ass, a Dog. _Lam._ Take your revenges, You know my Husbands wrongs and your own losses. _Anab._ A brave man, an admirable brave man; Well, well, I would not be so tryed again; A very handsome proper Gentleman. _Cler._ Will you let me lye by her but one hour more, And then hang me? _Din._ We wait your malice, put your swords home bravely, You have reason to seek bloud. _Lam._ Not as you are noble. _Cham._ Hands off, and give them liberty, only disarm 'em. _Beaup._ We have done that already. _Cham._ You are welcome, Gentlemen, I am glad my house has any pleasure for you, I keep a couple of Ladies here, they say fair, And you are young and handsome, Gentlemen; Have you any more mind to Wenches? _Cler._ To be abus'd too? Lady, you might have help'd this. _Ana._ Sir now 'tis past, but 't may be I may stand Your friend hereafter, in a greater matter. _Cler._ Never whilst you live. _Ana._ You cannot tell--now, Sir, a parting hand. _Cler._ Down and Roses: Well I may live to see you again. A dull Rogue, No revelation in thee. _Lam._ Were you well frighted? Were your fitts from the heart, of all colds and colours? That's all your punishment. _Cler._ It might have been all yours, Had not a block-head undertaken it. _Cham._ Your swords you must leave to these Gentlemen. _Verd._ And now, when you dare fight, We are on even Ice again. _Din._ 'Tis well: To be a Mistris, is to be a monster, And so I leave your house, and you for ever. _Lam._ Leave your wild lusts, and then you are a master. _Cham._ You may depart too. _Cler._ I had rather stay here. _Cham._ Faith we shall fright you worse. _Cler._ Not in that manner, There's five hundred Crowns, fright me but so again. _Din._ Come _Cleremont_, this is the hour of fool. _Cler._ Wiser the next shall be or we'll to School. [_Exeunt._ _Champ._ How coolly these hot gallants are departed! Faith Cousin, 'twas unconscionably done, To lye so still, and so long. _Anab._ 'Twas your pleasure, If 'twere a fault, I may hereafter mend. _Champ._ O my best Wife, Take now what course thou wilt, and lead what life. _Lam._ The more trust you commit, the more care still, Goodness and vertue shall attend my will. _Cham._ Let's laugh this night out now, and count our gains. We have our honours home, and they their pains. [_Exeunt omnes._ _Actus Quartus. Scena Prima._ _Enter_ Cleremont, Dinant. _Din._ It holds, they will go thither. _Cler._ To their Summer-house? _Din._ Thither i'th' evening, and which is the most infliction, Only to insult upon our miseries. _Cler._ Are you provided? _Din._ Yes, yes. _Cler._ Throughly? _Din._ Throughly. _Cler._ Basta, enough, I have your mind, I will not fail you. _Din._ At such an hour. _Cler._ Have I a memory? A Cause, and Will to do? thou art so sullen-- _Din._ And shall be, till I have a fair reparation. _Cler._ I have more reason, for I scaped a fortune, Which if I come so near again: I say nothing, But if I sweat not in another fashion-- O, a delicate Wench. _Din._ 'Tis certain a most handsome one. _Cler._ And me thought the thing was angry with it self too It lay so long conceal'd, but I must part with you, I have a scene of mirth, to drive this from my heart, And my hour is come. _Din._ Miss not your time. _Cler._ I dare not. [_Exeunt severally._ _Enter_ Sampson, _and a Gentleman_. _Gent._ I presume, Sir, you now need no instruction, But fairly know, what belongs to a Gentleman; You bear your Uncles cause. _Sam._ Do not disturb me, I understand my cause, and the right carriage. _Gent._ Be not too bloody. _Sam._ As I find my enemy; if his sword bite, If it bite, Sir, you must pardon me. _Gent._ No doubt he is valiant, He durst not undertake else, _Sam._ He's most welcome, As he is most valiant, he were no man for me else. _Gent._ But say he should relent. _Sam._ He dies relenting, I cannot help it, he must di[e] relenting, If he pray, praying, _ipso facto_, praying, Your honourable way admits no prayer, And if he fight, he falls, there's his _quietus_. _Gent._ Y'are nobly punctual, let's retire and meet 'em, But still, I say, have mercy. _Samp._ I say, honour. [_Exeunt._ _Enter_ Champernel, Lamira, Anabel, Beaupre, Verdone, Charlote _and a Servant_. _Lam._ Will not you go sweet-heart? _Champ._ Go? I'le fly with thee. I stay behind? _Lam._ My Father will be there too, And all our best friends. _Beau._ And if we be not merry, We have hard luck, Lady. _Verd._ Faith let's have a kind of play. _Cham._ What shall it be? _Verd._ The story of _Dinant_. _Lam._ With the merry conceits of _Cleremont_, His Fits and Feavers. _Ana._ But I'le lie still no more. _Lam._ That, as you make the Play, 'twill be rare sport, And how 'twill vex my gallants, when they hear it! Have you given order for the Coach? _Charl._ Yes, Madam. _Cham._ My easie Nag, and padd. _Serv._ 'Tis making ready. _Champ._ Where are your Horses? _Beau._ Ready at an hour, Sir: we'll not be last. _Cham._ Fie, what a night shall we have! A roaring, merry night. _Lam._ We'll flie at all, Sir. _Cham._ I'le flie at thee too, finely, and so ruffle thee, I'le try your Art upon a Country pallet. _Lam._ Brag not too much, for fear I should expect it, Then if you fail-- _Cham._ Thou saiest too true, we all talk.

ye

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

villain, (But yet no coward) and sollicites me To my dishonour, that's indeed a quarrel, And truly mine, which I will so revenge, As it shall fright such as dare only think To be adulterers. _Cham._ Use thine own waies, I give up all to thee. _Beau._ O women, women! When you are pleas'd you are the least of evils. _Verd._ I'le rime to't, but provokt, the worst of Devils. [_Exeunt._ _Enter Monsieur_ Sampson, _and three Clients_. _Samp._ I know Monsieur _La-writ_. _1 Cly._ Would he knew himself, Sir. _Samp._ He was a pretty Lawyer, a kind of pretty Lawyer, Of a kind of unable thing. _2 Cly._ A fine Lawyer, Sir, And would have firk'd you up a business, And out of this Court into that. _Samp._ Ye are too forward Not so fine my friends, something he could have done, But short short. _1 Cly._ I know your worships favour, You are Nephew to the Judge, Sir. _Samp._ It may be so, And something may be done, without trotting i'th' dirt, friends; It may be I can take him in his Chamber, And have an hours talk, it may be so, And tell him that in's ear; there are such courtesies; I will not say, I can. _3 Cly._ We know you can, Sir. _Sam._ Peradventure I, peradventure no: but where's _La-writ_? Where's your sufficient Lawyer? _1 Cly._ He's blown up, Sir. _2 Cly._ Run mad and quarrels with the Dog he meets; He is no Lawyer of this world now. _Sam._ Your reason? Is he defunct? is he dead? _2 Cly._ No he's not dead yet, Sir; But I would be loth to take a lease on's life for two hours: Alas, he is possest Sir, with the spirit of fighting And quarrels with all people; but how he came to it-- _Samp._ If he fight well and like a Gentleman, The man may fight, for 'tis a lawfull calling. Look you my friends, I am a civil Gentleman, And my Lord my Uncle loves me. _3 Cly._ We all know it, Sir. _Sam._ I think he does, Sir, I have business too, much business, Turn you some forty or fifty Causes in a week; Yet when I get an hour of vacancie, I can fight too my friends, a little does well, I would be loth to learn to fight. _1 Cly._ But and't please you Sir, His fighting has neglected all our business, We are undone, our causes cast away, Sir, His not appearance. _Sam._ There he fought too long, A little and fight well, he fought too long indeed friends; But ne'r the less things must be as they may, And there be wayes-- _1 Cly._ We know, Sir, if you please-- _Sam._ Something I'le do: goe rally up your Causes. _Enter_ La-writ, _and a_ Gentleman, _at the door_. _2 Cly._ Now you may behold Sir, And be a witness, whether we lie or no. _La-writ._ I'le meet you at the Ordinary, sweet Gentlemen, And if there be a wench or two-- _Gen._ We'll have 'em. _La-writ._ No handling any Duells before I come, We'll have no going else, I hate a coward. _Gent._ There shall be nothing done. _La-writ._ Make all the quarrels You can devise before I come, and let's all fight, There is no sport else. _Gent._ We'll see what may be done, Sir. _1 Cly._ Ha? Monsieur _La-writ_. _La-writ._ Baffled in way of business, My causes cast away, Judgement against us? Why there it goes. _2 Cly._ What shall we do the whilst Sir? _La-wr._ Breed new dissentions, goe hang your selves 'Tis all one to me; I have a new trade of living. _1 Cli._ Do you hear what he saies Sir? _Sam._ The Gentleman speaks finely. _La-wr._ Will any of you fight? Fighting's my occupation If you find your selves aggriev'd. _Sam._ A compleat Gentleman. _La-writ._ Avant thou buckram budget of petitions, Thou spittle of lame causes; I lament for thee, And till revenge be taken-- _Sam._ 'Tis most excellent. _La-wr._ There, every man chuse his paper, and his place. I'le answer ye all, I will neglect no mans business But he shall have satisfaction like a Gentleman, The Judge may do and not do, he's but a Monsieur. _Sam._ You have nothing of mine in your bag, Sir. _La-writ._ I know not Sir, But you may put any thing in, any fighting thing. _Sam._ It is sufficient, you may hear hereafter. _La-writ._ I rest your servant Sir. _Sam._ No more words Gentlemen But follow me, no more words as you love me, The Gentleman's a noble Gentleman. I shall do what I can, and then-- _Cli._ We thank you Sir. [_Ex._ Sam. _and_ Clients. _Sam._ Not a word to disturb him, he's a Gentleman. _La-writ._ No cause go o' my side? the judge cast all? And because I was honourably employed in action, And not appear'd, pronounce? 'tis very well, 'Tis well faith, 'tis well, Judge. _Enter_ Cleremont. _Cler._ Who have we here? My little furious Lawyer? _La-writ._ I say 'tis well, But mark the end. _Cler._ How he is metamorphos'd! Nothing of Lawyer left, not a bit of buckram, No solliciting face now, This is no simple conversion. Your servant Sir, and Friend. _La-writ._ You come in time, Sir, _Cler._ The happier man, to be at your command then. _La-writ._ You may wonder to see me thus; but that's all one, Time shall declare; 'tis true I was a Lawyer, But I have mew'd that coat, I hate a Lawyer, I talk'd much in the Court, now I hate talking, I did you the office of a man. _Cler._ I must confess it. _La-w._ And budg'd not, no I budg'd not. _Cler._ No, you did not. _La-w._ There's it then, one good turn requires another. _Cler._ Most willing Sir, I am ready at your service. _La-w._ There, read, and understand, and then deliver it. _Cler._ This is a Challenge, Sir, _La-w._ 'Tis very like, Sir, I seldom now write Sonnets. _Cler._ _O admirantis_, To Monsieur _Vertaign_, the President. _La-w._ I chuse no Fool, Sir. _Cler._ Why, he's no Sword-man, Sir. _La-w._ Let him learn, let him learn, Time, that trains Chickens up, will teach him quickly. _Cler._ Why, he's a Judge, an Old Man. _La-w._ Never too Old To be a Gentleman; and he that is a Judge Can judge best what belongs to wounded honour. There are my griefs, he has cast away my causes, In which he has bowed my reputation. And therefore Judge, or no Judge. _Cler._ 'Pray be rul'd Sir, This is the maddest thing-- _La-w._ You will not carry it. _Cler._ I do not tell you so, but if you may be perswaded. _La-w._ You know how you us'd me when I would not fight, Do you remember, Gentleman? _Cler._ The Devil's in him. _La-w._ I see it in your Eyes, that you dare do it, You have a carrying face, and you shall carry it. _Cler._ The least is Banishment. _La-w._ Be banish'd then; 'Tis a friends part, we'll meet in _Africa_, Or any part of the Earth. _Cler._ Say he will not fight. _La-w._ I know then what to say, take you no care, Sir, _Cler._ Well, I will carry it, and deliver it, And to morrow morning meet you in the Louver, Till when, my service. _La-w._ A Judge, or no Judge, no Judge. [_Exit_ La-writ. _Cler._ This is the prettiest Rogue that e'r I read of, None to provoke to th' field, but the old President; What face shall I put on? if I come in earnest, I am sure to wear a pair of Bracelets; This may make some sport yet, I will deliver it, Here comes the President. _Enter_ Vertaign, _with two Gentlemen_. _Vert._ I shall find time, Gentlemen, To do your causes good, is not that _Cleremont_? _1 Gent._ 'Tis he my Lord. _Vert._ Why does he smile upon me? Am I become ridiculous? has your fortune, Sir, Upon my Son, made you contemn his Father? The glory of a Gentleman is fair bearing. _Cler._ Mistake me not my Lord, you shall not find that, I come with no blown Spirit to abuse you, I know your place and honour due unto it, The reverence to your silver Age and Vertue. _Vert._ Your face is merry still. _Cler._ So is my business, And I beseech your honour mistake me not, I have brought you from a wild or rather Mad-man As mad a piece of--you were wont to love mirth In your young days, I have known your Honour woo it, This may be made no little one, 'tis a Challenge, Sir, Nay, start not, I beseech you, it means you no harm, Nor any Man of Honour, or Understanding, 'Tis to steal from your serious hours a little laughter; I am bold to bring it to your Lordship. _Vert._ 'Tis to me indeed: Do they take me for a Sword-man at these years? _Cler._ 'Tis only worth your Honours Mirth, that's all Sir, 'Thad been in me else a sawcy rudeness. _Vert._ From one _La-writ_, a very punctual Challenge. _Cler._ But if your Lordship mark it, no great matter. _Vert._ I have known such a wrangling Advocate, Such a little figent thing; Oh I remember him, A notable talking Knave, now out upon him, Has challeng'd me downright, defied me mortally I do remember too, I cast his Causes. _Cler._ Why, there's the quarrel, Sir, the mortal quarrel. _Vert._ Why, what a Knave is this? as y'are a Gentleman, Is there no further purpose but meer mirth? What a bold Man of War! he invites me roundly. _Cler._ If there should be, I were no Gentleman, Nor worthy of the honour of my Kindred. And though I am sure your Lordship hates my Person, Which Time may bring again into your favour, Yet for the manners-- _Vert._ I am satisfied, You see, Sir, I have out-liv'd those days of fighting, And therefore cannot do him the honour to beat him my self; But I have a Kinsman much of his ability, His Wit and Courage, for this call him Fool, One that will spit as senseless fire as this Fellow. _Cler._ And such a man to undertake, my Lord? _Vert._ Nay he's too forward; these two pitch Barrels together. _Cler._ Upon my soul, no harm. _Vert._ It makes me smile, Why, what a stinking smother will they utter! Yes, he shall undertake, Sir, as my Champion, Since you propound it mirth, I'll venture on it, And shall defend my cause, but as y'are honest Sport not with bloud. _Cler._ Think not so basely, good Sir. _Vert._ A Squire shall wait upon you from my Kinsman, To morrow morning make you sport at full, You want no Subject; but no wounds. _Cler._ That's my care. _Ver._ And so good day. [_Ex._ Vertaign, _and Gentlemen_. _Cler._ Many unto your honour. This is a noble Fellow, of a sweet Spirit, Now must I think how to contrive this matter, For together they shall go. _Enter_ Dinant. _Din._ O _Cleremont_, I am glad I have found thee. _Cler._ I can tell thee rare things. _Din._ O, I can tell thee rarer, Dost thou love me? _Cler._ Love thee? _Din._ Dost thou love me dearly? Dar'st thou for my sake? _Cler._ Any thing that's honest. _Din._ Though it be dangerous? _Cler._ Pox o' dangerous. _Din._ Nay wondrous dangerous. _Cler._ Wilt thou break my heart? _Din._ Along with me then. _Cler._ I must part to morrow. _Din._ You shall, you shall, be faithful for this night, And thou hast made thy friend. _Cler._ Away, and talk not. [_Exeunt._ _Enter_ Lamira, _and Nurse_. _Lam._ O Nurse, welcome, where's _Dinant_? _Nurse._ He's at my back. 'Tis the most liberal Gentleman, this Gold He gave me for my pains, nor can I blame you, If you yield up the fort. _Lam._ How? yield it up? _Nurse._ I know not, he that loves, and gives so largely, And a young Lord to boot, or I am cozen'd, May enter every where. _Lam._ Thou'lt make me angry. _Enter_ Dinant, _and_ Cleremont. _Nur._ Why, if you are, I hope here's one will please you, Look on him with my Eyes, good luck go with you: Were I young for your sake-- _Din._ I thank thee, Nurse. _Nur._ I would be tractable, and as I am-- _Lam._ Leave the room, So old, and so immodest! and be careful, Since whispers will 'wake sleeping jealousies, That none disturb my Lord. [_Exit Nurse._ _Cler._ Will you dispatch? Till you come to the matter be not rapt thus, Walk in, walk in, I am your scout for once, You owe me the like service. _Din._ And will pay it. _Lam._ As you respect our lives, speak not so loud. _Cler._ Why, do it in dumb shew then, I am silenc'd. _Lam._ Be not so hasty, Sir, the golden Apples Had a fell Dragon for their Guard, your pleasures Are to be attempted with _Herculean_ danger, Or never to be gotten. _Din._ Speak the means. _Lam._ Thus briefly, my Lord sleeps now, and alas, Each Night, he only sleeps. _Cler._ Go, keep her stirring. _Lam._ Now if he 'wake, as sometimes he does, He only stretches out his hand and feels, Whether I am a bed, which being assur'd of, He sleeps again; but should he miss me, Valour Could not defend our lives. _Din._ What's to be done then? _Lam._ Servants have servile faiths, nor have I any That I dare trust; on noble _Cleremont_ We safely may rely. _Cler._ What man can do, Command and boldly. _Lam._ Thus then in my place, You must lye with my Lord. _Cler._ With an old man? Two Beards together, that's preposterous. _Lam._ There is no other way, and though 'tis dangerous, He having servants within call, and arm'd too, Slaves fed to act all that his jealousie And rage commands them, yet a true friend should not Check at the hazard of a life. _Cler._ I thank you, I love my friend, but know no reason why To hate my self; to be a kind of pander, You see I am willing, But to betray mine own throat you must pardon. _Din._ Then I am lost, and all my hopes defeated, Were I to hazard ten times more for you, You should find, _Cleremont_-- _Cler._ You shall not outdo me, Fall what may fall, I'll do't. _Din._ But for his Beard-- _Lam._ To cover that you shall have my night Linnen, And you dispos'd of, my _Dinant_ and I Will have some private conference. _Enter_ Champernel, _privately_. _Cler._ Private doing, Or I'll not venture. _Lam._ That's as we agree. [_Exeunt._ _Enter Nurse, and_ Charlotte, _pass over the Stage with Pillows, Night cloaths, and such things_. _Cham._ What can this Woman do, preserving her honour? I have given her all the liberty that may be, I will not be far off though, nor I will not be jealous, Nor trust too much, I think she is vertuous, Yet when I hold her best, she's but a Woman, As full of frailty as of faith, a poor sleight Woman, And her best thoughts, but weak fortifications, There may be a Mine wrought: Well, let 'em work then, I shall meet with it, till the signs be monstrous, And stick upon my head, I will not believe it, [_Stands private._ She may be, and she may not, now to my observation. _Enter_ Dinant, _and_ Lamira. _Din._ Why do you make me stay so? if you love me-- _Lam._ You are too hot and violent. _Din._ Why do you shift thus From one Chamber to another? _Lam._ A little delay, Sir, Like fire, a little sprinkled o'r with water Makes the desires burn clear, and ten times hotter. _Din._ Why do you speak so loud? I pray'e go in, Sweet Mistriss, I am mad, time steals away, And when we would enjoy-- _Lam._ Now fie, fie, Servant, Like sensual Beasts shall we enjoy our pleasures? _Din._ 'Pray do not kiss me then. _Lam._ Why, that I will, and you shall find anon, servant. _Din._ Softly, for heavens sake, you know my friend's engag'd, A little now, now; will ye go in again? _Lam._ Ha, ha, ha, ha. _Din._ Why do you laugh so loud, Precious? Will you betray me; ha' my friends throat cut? _Lam._ Come, come, I'll kiss thee again. _Cham._ Will you so? you are liberal, If you do cozen me-- _Enter Nurse with Wine._ _Din._ What's this? _Lam._ Wine, Wine, a draught or two. _Din._ What does this Woman here? _Lam._ She shall not hinder you. _Din._ This might have been spar'd, 'Tis but delay and time lost; pray send her softly off. _Lam._ Sit down, and mix your spirits with Wine, I will make you another _Hercules_. _Din._ I dare not drink; Fie, what delays you make! I dare not, I shall be drunk presently, and do strange things then. _Lam._ Not drink a cup with your Mistriss! O the pleasure. _Din._ Lady, why this? [_Musick._ _Lam._ We must have mirth to our Wine, Man. _Din._ Pl---- o' the Musick. _Champ._ God-a-mercy Wench, If thou dost cuckold me I shall forgive thee. _Din._ The house will all rise now, this will disturb all. Did you do this? _Lam._ Peace, and sit quiet, fool, You love me, come, sit down and drink. _Enter_ Cleremont _above_. _Cler._ What a Devil ail you? How cold I sweat! a hogs pox stop your pipes, [_Musick._ The thing will 'wake; now, now, methinks I find His Sword just gliding through my throat. What's that? A vengeance choak your pipes. Are you there, Lady? Stop, stop those Rascals; do you bring me hither To be cut into minced meat? why _Dinant_? _Din._ I cannot do withal; I have spoke, and spoke; I am betray'd and lost too. _Cler._ Do you hear me? do you understand me? 'Plague dam your Whistles. [_Musick ends._ _Lam._ 'Twas but an over-sight, they have done, lye down. _Cler._ Would you had done too, You know not In what a misery and fear I lye. You have a Lady in your arms. _Din._ I would have-- [_The Recorders again._ _Champ._ I'll watch you Goodman Wou'd have. _Cler._ Remove for Heavens sake, And fall to that you come for. _Lam._ Lie you down, 'Tis but an hours endurance now. _Cler._ I dare not, softly sweet Lady ----heart? _Lam._ 'Tis nothing but your fear, he sleeps still soundly, Lie gently down. _Cler._ 'Pray make an end. _Din._ Come, Madam. _Lam._ These Chambers are too near. [_Ex._ Din. Lam. _Cham._ I shall be nearer; Well, go thy wayes, I'le trust thee through the world, Deal how thou wilt: that that I never feel, I'le never fear. Yet by the honour of a Souldier, I hold thee truly noble: How these things will look, And how their blood will curdle! Play on Children, You shall have pap anon. O thou grand Fool, That thou knew'st but thy fortune-- [_Musick done._ _Cler._ Peace, good Madam, Stop her mouth, _Dinant_, it sleeps yet, 'pray be wary, Dispatch, I cannot endure this misery, I can hear nothing more; I'll say my prayers, And down again-- [_Whistle within._ A thousand Alarms fall upon my quarters, Heaven send me off; when I lye keeping Courses. Pl---- o' your fumbling, _Dinant_; how I shake! 'Tis still again: would I were in the _Indies_. [_Exit_ Cler. _Enter_ Dinant, _and_ Lamira: _a light within_. _Din._ Why do you use me thus? thus poorly? basely? Work me into a hope, and then destroy me? Why did you send for me? this new way train me? _Lam._ Mad-man, and fool, and false man, now I'll shew thee. _Din._ 'Pray put your light out. _Lam._ Nay I'll hold it thus, That all chaste Eyes may see thy lust, and scorn it. Tell me but this when you first doted on me, And made suit to enjoy me as your Wife, Did you not hold me honest? _Din._ Yes, most vertuous. _Lam._ And did not that appear the only lustre That made me worth your love and admiration? _Din._ I must confess-- _Lam._ Why would you deal so basely? So like a thief, a Villain? _Din._ Peace, good Madam. _Lam._ I'll speak aloud too; thus maliciously, Thus breaking all the Rules of honesty, Of honour and of truth, for which I lov'd you, For which I call'd you servant, and admir'd you; To steal that Jewel purchas'd by another, Piously set in Wedlock, even that Jewel, Because it had no flaw, you held unvaluable: Can he that has lov'd good, dote on the Devil? For he that seeks a Whore, seeks but his Agent; Or am I of so wild and low a blood? So nurs'd in infamies? _Din._ I do not think so, And I repent. _Lam._ That will not serve your turn, Sir. _Din._ It was your treaty drew me on. _Lam._ But it was your villany Made you pursue it; I drew you but to try How much a man, and nobly thou durst stand, How well you had deserv'd the name of vertuous; But you like a wild torrent, mix'd with all Beastly and base affections came floating on, Swelling your poyson'd billows-- _Din._ Will you betray me? _Lam._ To all the miseries a vext Woman may. _Din._ Let me but out, Give me but room to toss my Sword about me, And I will tell you y'are a treacherous woman, O that I had but words! _Lam._ They will not serve you. _Din._ But two-edg'd words to cut thee; a Lady traytor? Perish by a proud Puppet? I did you too much honour, To tender you my love, too much respected you To think you worthy of my worst embraces. Go take your Groom, and let him dally with you, Your greasie Groom; I scorn to imp your lame stock, You are not fair, nor handsome, I lyed loudly, This tongue abus'd you when it spoke you beauteous. _Lam._ 'Tis very well, 'tis brave. _Din._ Put out your light, Your lascivious eyes are flames enough For Fools to find you out; a Lady Plotter! Must I begin your sacrifice of mischief? I and my friend, the first-fruits of that bloud, You and your honourable Husband aim at? Crooked and wretched you are both. _Lam._ To you, Sir, Yet to the Eye of Justice straight as Truth. _Din._ Is this a womans love? a womans mercy? Do you profess this seriously? do you laugh at me? _Lam._ Ha, ha. _Din._ Pl---- light upon your scorns, upon your flatteries, Upon your tempting faces, all destructions; A bedrid winter hang upon your cheeks, And blast, blast, blast those buds of Pride that paint you; Death in your eyes to fright men from these dangers: Raise up your trophy, _Cleremont_. _Cler._ What a vengeance ail you? _Din._ What dismal noise! is there no honour in you? _Cleremont_, we are betrayed, betrayed, sold by a woman; Deal bravely for thy self. _Cler._ This comes of rutting; Are we made stales to one another? _Din._ Yes, we are undone, lost. _Cler._ You shall pay for't grey-beard. Up, up, you sleep your last else. {_Lights above, two Servants {and_ Anabel. _1 Serv._ No, not yet, Sir, Lady, look up, would you have wrong'd this Beauty? Wake so tender a Virgin with rough terms? You wear a Sword, we must entreat you leave it. _2 Serv._ Fye Sir, so sweet a Lady? _Cler._ Was this my bed-fellow, pray give me leave to look, I am not mad yet, I may be by and by. Did this lye by me? Did I fear this? is this a Cause to shake at? Away with me for shame, I am a Rascal. _Enter_ Champernel, Beaupre, Verdone, Lamira, Anabel, Cleremont, _and two Servants_. _Din._ I am amaz'd too. _Beaup._ We'll recover you. _Verd._ You walk like _Robin-good-fellow_ all the house over, And every man afraid of you. _Din._ 'Tis well, Lady; The honour of this deed will be your own, The world shall know your bounty. _Beaup._ What shall we do with 'em? _Cler._ Geld me, For 'tis not fit I should be a man again, I am an Ass, a Dog. _Lam._ Take your revenges, You know my Husbands wrongs and your own losses. _Anab._ A brave man, an admirable brave man; Well, well, I would not be so tryed again; A very handsome proper Gentleman. _Cler._ Will you let me lye by her but one hour more, And then hang me? _Din._ We wait your malice, put your swords home bravely, You have reason to seek bloud. _Lam._ Not as you are noble. _Cham._ Hands off, and give them liberty, only disarm 'em. _Beaup._ We have done that already. _Cham._ You are welcome, Gentlemen, I am glad my house has any pleasure for you, I keep a couple of Ladies here, they say fair, And you are young and handsome, Gentlemen; Have you any more mind to Wenches? _Cler._ To be abus'd too? Lady, you might have help'd this. _Ana._ Sir now 'tis past, but 't may be I may stand Your friend hereafter, in a greater matter. _Cler._ Never whilst you live. _Ana._ You cannot tell--now, Sir, a parting hand. _Cler._ Down and Roses: Well I may live to see you again. A dull Rogue, No revelation in thee. _Lam._ Were you well frighted? Were your fitts from the heart, of all colds and colours? That's all your punishment. _Cler._ It might have been all yours, Had not a block-head undertaken it. _Cham._ Your swords you must leave to these Gentlemen. _Verd._ And now, when you dare fight, We are on even Ice again. _Din._ 'Tis well: To be a Mistris, is to be a monster, And so I leave your house, and you for ever. _Lam._ Leave your wild lusts, and then you are a master. _Cham._ You may depart too. _Cler._ I had rather stay here. _Cham._ Faith we shall fright you worse. _Cler._ Not in that manner, There's five hundred Crowns, fright me but so again. _Din._ Come _Cleremont_, this is the hour of fool. _Cler._ Wiser the next shall be or we'll to School. [_Exeunt._ _Champ._ How coolly these hot gallants are departed! Faith Cousin, 'twas unconscionably done, To lye so still, and so long. _Anab._ 'Twas your pleasure, If 'twere a fault, I may hereafter mend. _Champ._ O my best Wife, Take now what course thou wilt, and lead what life. _Lam._ The more trust you commit, the more care still, Goodness and vertue shall attend my will. _Cham._ Let's laugh this night out now, and count our gains. We have our honours home, and they their pains. [_Exeunt omnes._ _Actus Quartus. Scena Prima._ _Enter_ Cleremont, Dinant. _Din._ It holds, they will go thither. _Cler._ To their Summer-house? _Din._ Thither i'th' evening, and which is the most infliction, Only to insult upon our miseries. _Cler._ Are you provided? _Din._ Yes, yes. _Cler._ Throughly? _Din._ Throughly. _Cler._ Basta, enough, I have your mind, I will not fail you. _Din._ At such an hour. _Cler._ Have I a memory? A Cause, and Will to do? thou art so sullen-- _Din._ And shall be, till I have a fair reparation. _Cler._ I have more reason, for I scaped a fortune, Which if I come so near again: I say nothing, But if I sweat not in another fashion-- O, a delicate Wench. _Din._ 'Tis certain a most handsome one. _Cler._ And me thought the thing was angry with it self too It lay so long conceal'd, but I must part with you, I have a scene of mirth, to drive this from my heart, And my hour is come. _Din._ Miss not your time. _Cler._ I dare not. [_Exeunt severally._ _Enter_ Sampson, _and a Gentleman_. _Gent._ I presume, Sir, you now need no instruction, But fairly know, what belongs to a Gentleman; You bear your Uncles cause. _Sam._ Do not disturb me, I understand my cause, and the right carriage. _Gent._ Be not too bloody. _Sam._ As I find my enemy; if his sword bite, If it bite, Sir, you must pardon me. _Gent._ No doubt he is valiant, He durst not undertake else, _Sam._ He's most welcome, As he is most valiant, he were no man for me else. _Gent._ But say he should relent. _Sam._ He dies relenting, I cannot help it, he must di[e] relenting, If he pray, praying, _ipso facto_, praying, Your honourable way admits no prayer, And if he fight, he falls, there's his _quietus_. _Gent._ Y'are nobly punctual, let's retire and meet 'em, But still, I say, have mercy. _Samp._ I say, honour. [_Exeunt._ _Enter_ Champernel, Lamira, Anabel, Beaupre, Verdone, Charlote _and a Servant_. _Lam._ Will not you go sweet-heart? _Champ._ Go? I'le fly with thee. I stay behind? _Lam._ My Father will be there too, And all our best friends. _Beau._ And if we be not merry, We have hard luck, Lady. _Verd._ Faith let's have a kind of play. _Cham._ What shall it be? _Verd._ The story of _Dinant_. _Lam._ With the merry conceits of _Cleremont_, His Fits and Feavers. _Ana._ But I'le lie still no more. _Lam._ That, as you make the Play, 'twill be rare sport, And how 'twill vex my gallants, when they hear it! Have you given order for the Coach? _Charl._ Yes, Madam. _Cham._ My easie Nag, and padd. _Serv._ 'Tis making ready. _Champ._ Where are your Horses? _Beau._ Ready at an hour, Sir: we'll not be last. _Cham._ Fie, what a night shall we have! A roaring, merry night. _Lam._ We'll flie at all, Sir. _Cham._ I'le flie at thee too, finely, and so ruffle thee, I'le try your Art upon a Country pallet. _Lam._ Brag not too much, for fear I should expect it, Then if you fail-- _Cham._ Thou saiest too true, we all talk.

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

villain, (But yet no coward) and sollicites me To my dishonour, that's indeed a quarrel, And truly mine, which I will so revenge, As it shall fright such as dare only think To be adulterers. _Cham._ Use thine own waies, I give up all to thee. _Beau._ O women, women! When you are pleas'd you are the least of evils. _Verd._ I'le rime to't, but provokt, the worst of Devils. [_Exeunt._ _Enter Monsieur_ Sampson, _and three Clients_. _Samp._ I know Monsieur _La-writ_. _1 Cly._ Would he knew himself, Sir. _Samp._ He was a pretty Lawyer, a kind of pretty Lawyer, Of a kind of unable thing. _2 Cly._ A fine Lawyer, Sir, And would have firk'd you up a business, And out of this Court into that. _Samp._ Ye are too forward Not so fine my friends, something he could have done, But short short. _1 Cly._ I know your worships favour, You are Nephew to the Judge, Sir. _Samp._ It may be so, And something may be done, without trotting i'th' dirt, friends; It may be I can take him in his Chamber, And have an hours talk, it may be so, And tell him that in's ear; there are such courtesies; I will not say, I can. _3 Cly._ We know you can, Sir. _Sam._ Peradventure I, peradventure no: but where's _La-writ_? Where's your sufficient Lawyer? _1 Cly._ He's blown up, Sir. _2 Cly._ Run mad and quarrels with the Dog he meets; He is no Lawyer of this world now. _Sam._ Your reason? Is he defunct? is he dead? _2 Cly._ No he's not dead yet, Sir; But I would be loth to take a lease on's life for two hours: Alas, he is possest Sir, with the spirit of fighting And quarrels with all people; but how he came to it-- _Samp._ If he fight well and like a Gentleman, The man may fight, for 'tis a lawfull calling. Look you my friends, I am a civil Gentleman, And my Lord my Uncle loves me. _3 Cly._ We all know it, Sir. _Sam._ I think he does, Sir, I have business too, much business, Turn you some forty or fifty Causes in a week; Yet when I get an hour of vacancie, I can fight too my friends, a little does well, I would be loth to learn to fight. _1 Cly._ But and't please you Sir, His fighting has neglected all our business, We are undone, our causes cast away, Sir, His not appearance. _Sam._ There he fought too long, A little and fight well, he fought too long indeed friends; But ne'r the less things must be as they may, And there be wayes-- _1 Cly._ We know, Sir, if you please-- _Sam._ Something I'le do: goe rally up your Causes. _Enter_ La-writ, _and a_ Gentleman, _at the door_. _2 Cly._ Now you may behold Sir, And be a witness, whether we lie or no. _La-writ._ I'le meet you at the Ordinary, sweet Gentlemen, And if there be a wench or two-- _Gen._ We'll have 'em. _La-writ._ No handling any Duells before I come, We'll have no going else, I hate a coward. _Gent._ There shall be nothing done. _La-writ._ Make all the quarrels You can devise before I come, and let's all fight, There is no sport else. _Gent._ We'll see what may be done, Sir. _1 Cly._ Ha? Monsieur _La-writ_. _La-writ._ Baffled in way of business, My causes cast away, Judgement against us? Why there it goes. _2 Cly._ What shall we do the whilst Sir? _La-wr._ Breed new dissentions, goe hang your selves 'Tis all one to me; I have a new trade of living. _1 Cli._ Do you hear what he saies Sir? _Sam._ The Gentleman speaks finely. _La-wr._ Will any of you fight? Fighting's my occupation If you find your selves aggriev'd. _Sam._ A compleat Gentleman. _La-writ._ Avant thou buckram budget of petitions, Thou spittle of lame causes; I lament for thee, And till revenge be taken-- _Sam._ 'Tis most excellent. _La-wr._ There, every man chuse his paper, and his place. I'le answer ye all, I will neglect no mans business But he shall have satisfaction like a Gentleman, The Judge may do and not do, he's but a Monsieur. _Sam._ You have nothing of mine in your bag, Sir. _La-writ._ I know not Sir, But you may put any thing in, any fighting thing. _Sam._ It is sufficient, you may hear hereafter. _La-writ._ I rest your servant Sir. _Sam._ No more words Gentlemen But follow me, no more words as you love me, The Gentleman's a noble Gentleman. I shall do what I can, and then-- _Cli._ We thank you Sir. [_Ex._ Sam. _and_ Clients. _Sam._ Not a word to disturb him, he's a Gentleman. _La-writ._ No cause go o' my side? the judge cast all? And because I was honourably employed in action, And not appear'd, pronounce? 'tis very well, 'Tis well faith, 'tis well, Judge. _Enter_ Cleremont. _Cler._ Who have we here? My little furious Lawyer? _La-writ._ I say 'tis well, But mark the end. _Cler._ How he is metamorphos'd! Nothing of Lawyer left, not a bit of buckram, No solliciting face now, This is no simple conversion. Your servant Sir, and Friend. _La-writ._ You come in time, Sir, _Cler._ The happier man, to be at your command then. _La-writ._ You may wonder to see me thus; but that's all one, Time shall declare; 'tis true I was a Lawyer, But I have mew'd that coat, I hate a Lawyer, I talk'd much in the Court, now I hate talking, I did you the office of a man. _Cler._ I must confess it. _La-w._ And budg'd not, no I budg'd not. _Cler._ No, you did not. _La-w._ There's it then, one good turn requires another. _Cler._ Most willing Sir, I am ready at your service. _La-w._ There, read, and understand, and then deliver it. _Cler._ This is a Challenge, Sir, _La-w._ 'Tis very like, Sir, I seldom now write Sonnets. _Cler._ _O admirantis_, To Monsieur _Vertaign_, the President. _La-w._ I chuse no Fool, Sir. _Cler._ Why, he's no Sword-man, Sir. _La-w._ Let him learn, let him learn, Time, that trains Chickens up, will teach him quickly. _Cler._ Why, he's a Judge, an Old Man. _La-w._ Never too Old To be a Gentleman; and he that is a Judge Can judge best what belongs to wounded honour. There are my griefs, he has cast away my causes, In which he has bowed my reputation. And therefore Judge, or no Judge. _Cler._ 'Pray be rul'd Sir, This is the maddest thing-- _La-w._ You will not carry it. _Cler._ I do not tell you so, but if you may be perswaded. _La-w._ You know how you us'd me when I would not fight, Do you remember, Gentleman? _Cler._ The Devil's in him. _La-w._ I see it in your Eyes, that you dare do it, You have a carrying face, and you shall carry it. _Cler._ The least is Banishment. _La-w._ Be banish'd then; 'Tis a friends part, we'll meet in _Africa_, Or any part of the Earth. _Cler._ Say he will not fight. _La-w._ I know then what to say, take you no care, Sir, _Cler._ Well, I will carry it, and deliver it, And to morrow morning meet you in the Louver, Till when, my service. _La-w._ A Judge, or no Judge, no Judge. [_Exit_ La-writ. _Cler._ This is the prettiest Rogue that e'r I read of, None to provoke to th' field, but the old President; What face shall I put on? if I come in earnest, I am sure to wear a pair of Bracelets; This may make some sport yet, I will deliver it, Here comes the President. _Enter_ Vertaign, _with two Gentlemen_. _Vert._ I shall find time, Gentlemen, To do your causes good, is not that _Cleremont_? _1 Gent._ 'Tis he my Lord. _Vert._ Why does he smile upon me? Am I become ridiculous? has your fortune, Sir, Upon my Son, made you contemn his Father? The glory of a Gentleman is fair bearing. _Cler._ Mistake me not my Lord, you shall not find that, I come with no blown Spirit to abuse you, I know your place and honour due unto it, The reverence to your silver Age and Vertue. _Vert._ Your face is merry still. _Cler._ So is my business, And I beseech your honour mistake me not, I have brought you from a wild or rather Mad-man As mad a piece of--you were wont to love mirth In your young days, I have known your Honour woo it, This may be made no little one, 'tis a Challenge, Sir, Nay, start not, I beseech you, it means you no harm, Nor any Man of Honour, or Understanding, 'Tis to steal from your serious hours a little laughter; I am bold to bring it to your Lordship. _Vert._ 'Tis to me indeed: Do they take me for a Sword-man at these years? _Cler._ 'Tis only worth your Honours Mirth, that's all Sir, 'Thad been in me else a sawcy rudeness. _Vert._ From one _La-writ_, a very punctual Challenge. _Cler._ But if your Lordship mark it, no great matter. _Vert._ I have known such a wrangling Advocate, Such a little figent thing; Oh I remember him, A notable talking Knave, now out upon him, Has challeng'd me downright, defied me mortally I do remember too, I cast his Causes. _Cler._ Why, there's the quarrel, Sir, the mortal quarrel. _Vert._ Why, what a Knave is this? as y'are a Gentleman, Is there no further purpose but meer mirth? What a bold Man of War! he invites me roundly. _Cler._ If there should be, I were no Gentleman, Nor worthy of the honour of my Kindred. And though I am sure your Lordship hates my Person, Which Time may bring again into your favour, Yet for the manners-- _Vert._ I am satisfied, You see, Sir, I have out-liv'd those days of fighting, And therefore cannot do him the honour to beat him my self; But I have a Kinsman much of his ability, His Wit and Courage, for this call him Fool, One that will spit as senseless fire as this Fellow. _Cler._ And such a man to undertake, my Lord? _Vert._ Nay he's too forward; these two pitch Barrels together. _Cler._ Upon my soul, no harm. _Vert._ It makes me smile, Why, what a stinking smother will they utter! Yes, he shall undertake, Sir, as my Champion, Since you propound it mirth, I'll venture on it, And shall defend my cause, but as y'are honest Sport not with bloud. _Cler._ Think not so basely, good Sir. _Vert._ A Squire shall wait upon you from my Kinsman, To morrow morning make you sport at full, You want no Subject; but no wounds. _Cler._ That's my care. _Ver._ And so good day. [_Ex._ Vertaign, _and Gentlemen_. _Cler._ Many unto your honour. This is a noble Fellow, of a sweet Spirit, Now must I think how to contrive this matter, For together they shall go. _Enter_ Dinant. _Din._ O _Cleremont_, I am glad I have found thee. _Cler._ I can tell thee rare things. _Din._ O, I can tell thee rarer, Dost thou love me? _Cler._ Love thee? _Din._ Dost thou love me dearly? Dar'st thou for my sake? _Cler._ Any thing that's honest. _Din._ Though it be dangerous? _Cler._ Pox o' dangerous. _Din._ Nay wondrous dangerous. _Cler._ Wilt thou break my heart? _Din._ Along with me then. _Cler._ I must part to morrow. _Din._ You shall, you shall, be faithful for this night, And thou hast made thy friend. _Cler._ Away, and talk not. [_Exeunt._ _Enter_ Lamira, _and Nurse_. _Lam._ O Nurse, welcome, where's _Dinant_? _Nurse._ He's at my back. 'Tis the most liberal Gentleman, this Gold He gave me for my pains, nor can I blame you, If you yield up the fort. _Lam._ How? yield it up? _Nurse._ I know not, he that loves, and gives so largely, And a young Lord to boot, or I am cozen'd, May enter every where. _Lam._ Thou'lt make me angry. _Enter_ Dinant, _and_ Cleremont. _Nur._ Why, if you are, I hope here's one will please you, Look on him with my Eyes, good luck go with you: Were I young for your sake-- _Din._ I thank thee, Nurse. _Nur._ I would be tractable, and as I am-- _Lam._ Leave the room, So old, and so immodest! and be careful, Since whispers will 'wake sleeping jealousies, That none disturb my Lord. [_Exit Nurse._ _Cler._ Will you dispatch? Till you come to the matter be not rapt thus, Walk in, walk in, I am your scout for once, You owe me the like service. _Din._ And will pay it. _Lam._ As you respect our lives, speak not so loud. _Cler._ Why, do it in dumb shew then, I am silenc'd. _Lam._ Be not so hasty, Sir, the golden Apples Had a fell Dragon for their Guard, your pleasures Are to be attempted with _Herculean_ danger, Or never to be gotten. _Din._ Speak the means. _Lam._ Thus briefly, my Lord sleeps now, and alas, Each Night, he only sleeps. _Cler._ Go, keep her stirring. _Lam._ Now if he 'wake, as sometimes he does, He only stretches out his hand and feels, Whether I am a bed, which being assur'd of, He sleeps again; but should he miss me, Valour Could not defend our lives. _Din._ What's to be done then? _Lam._ Servants have servile faiths, nor have I any That I dare trust; on noble _Cleremont_ We safely may rely. _Cler._ What man can do, Command and boldly. _Lam._ Thus then in my place, You must lye with my Lord. _Cler._ With an old man? Two Beards together, that's preposterous. _Lam._ There is no other way, and though 'tis dangerous, He having servants within call, and arm'd too, Slaves fed to act all that his jealousie And rage commands them, yet a true friend should not Check at the hazard of a life. _Cler._ I thank you, I love my friend, but know no reason why To hate my self; to be a kind of pander, You see I am willing, But to betray mine own throat you must pardon. _Din._ Then I am lost, and all my hopes defeated, Were I to hazard ten times more for you, You should find, _Cleremont_-- _Cler._ You shall not outdo me, Fall what may fall, I'll do't. _Din._ But for his Beard-- _Lam._ To cover that you shall have my night Linnen, And you dispos'd of, my _Dinant_ and I Will have some private conference. _Enter_ Champernel, _privately_. _Cler._ Private doing, Or I'll not venture. _Lam._ That's as we agree. [_Exeunt._ _Enter Nurse, and_ Charlotte, _pass over the Stage with Pillows, Night cloaths, and such things_. _Cham._ What can this Woman do, preserving her honour? I have given her all the liberty that may be, I will not be far off though, nor I will not be jealous, Nor trust too much, I think she is vertuous, Yet when I hold her best, she's but a Woman, As full of frailty as of faith, a poor sleight Woman, And her best thoughts, but weak fortifications, There may be a Mine wrought: Well, let 'em work then, I shall meet with it, till the signs be monstrous, And stick upon my head, I will not believe it, [_Stands private._ She may be, and she may not, now to my observation. _Enter_ Dinant, _and_ Lamira. _Din._ Why do you make me stay so? if you love me-- _Lam._ You are too hot and violent. _Din._ Why do you shift thus From one Chamber to another? _Lam._ A little delay, Sir, Like fire, a little sprinkled o'r with water Makes the desires burn clear, and ten times hotter. _Din._ Why do you speak so loud? I pray'e go in, Sweet Mistriss, I am mad, time steals away, And when we would enjoy-- _Lam._ Now fie, fie, Servant, Like sensual Beasts shall we enjoy our pleasures? _Din._ 'Pray do not kiss me then. _Lam._ Why, that I will, and you shall find anon, servant. _Din._ Softly, for heavens sake, you know my friend's engag'd, A little now, now; will ye go in again? _Lam._ Ha, ha, ha, ha. _Din._ Why do you laugh so loud, Precious? Will you betray me; ha' my friends throat cut? _Lam._ Come, come, I'll kiss thee again. _Cham._ Will you so? you are liberal, If you do cozen me-- _Enter Nurse with Wine._ _Din._ What's this? _Lam._ Wine, Wine, a draught or two. _Din._ What does this Woman here? _Lam._ She shall not hinder you. _Din._ This might have been spar'd, 'Tis but delay and time lost; pray send her softly off. _Lam._ Sit down, and mix your spirits with Wine, I will make you another _Hercules_. _Din._ I dare not drink; Fie, what delays you make! I dare not, I shall be drunk presently, and do strange things then. _Lam._ Not drink a cup with your Mistriss! O the pleasure. _Din._ Lady, why this? [_Musick._ _Lam._ We must have mirth to our Wine, Man. _Din._ Pl---- o' the Musick. _Champ._ God-a-mercy Wench, If thou dost cuckold me I shall forgive thee. _Din._ The house will all rise now, this will disturb all. Did you do this? _Lam._ Peace, and sit quiet, fool, You love me, come, sit down and drink. _Enter_ Cleremont _above_. _Cler._ What a Devil ail you? How cold I sweat! a hogs pox stop your pipes, [_Musick._ The thing will 'wake; now, now, methinks I find His Sword just gliding through my throat. What's that? A vengeance choak your pipes. Are you there, Lady? Stop, stop those Rascals; do you bring me hither To be cut into minced meat? why _Dinant_? _Din._ I cannot do withal; I have spoke, and spoke; I am betray'd and lost too. _Cler._ Do you hear me? do you understand me? 'Plague dam your Whistles. [_Musick ends._ _Lam._ 'Twas but an over-sight, they have done, lye down. _Cler._ Would you had done too, You know not In what a misery and fear I lye. You have a Lady in your arms. _Din._ I would have-- [_The Recorders again._ _Champ._ I'll watch you Goodman Wou'd have. _Cler._ Remove for Heavens sake, And fall to that you come for. _Lam._ Lie you down, 'Tis but an hours endurance now. _Cler._ I dare not, softly sweet Lady ----heart? _Lam._ 'Tis nothing but your fear, he sleeps still soundly, Lie gently down. _Cler._ 'Pray make an end. _Din._ Come, Madam. _Lam._ These Chambers are too near. [_Ex._ Din. Lam. _Cham._ I shall be nearer; Well, go thy wayes, I'le trust thee through the world, Deal how thou wilt: that that I never feel, I'le never fear. Yet by the honour of a Souldier, I hold thee truly noble: How these things will look, And how their blood will curdle! Play on Children, You shall have pap anon. O thou grand Fool, That thou knew'st but thy fortune-- [_Musick done._ _Cler._ Peace, good Madam, Stop her mouth, _Dinant_, it sleeps yet, 'pray be wary, Dispatch, I cannot endure this misery, I can hear nothing more; I'll say my prayers, And down again-- [_Whistle within._ A thousand Alarms fall upon my quarters, Heaven send me off; when I lye keeping Courses. Pl---- o' your fumbling, _Dinant_; how I shake! 'Tis still again: would I were in the _Indies_. [_Exit_ Cler. _Enter_ Dinant, _and_ Lamira: _a light within_. _Din._ Why do you use me thus? thus poorly? basely? Work me into a hope, and then destroy me? Why did you send for me? this new way train me? _Lam._ Mad-man, and fool, and false man, now I'll shew thee. _Din._ 'Pray put your light out. _Lam._ Nay I'll hold it thus, That all chaste Eyes may see thy lust, and scorn it. Tell me but this when you first doted on me, And made suit to enjoy me as your Wife, Did you not hold me honest? _Din._ Yes, most vertuous. _Lam._ And did not that appear the only lustre That made me worth your love and admiration? _Din._ I must confess-- _Lam._ Why would you deal so basely? So like a thief, a Villain? _Din._ Peace, good Madam. _Lam._ I'll speak aloud too; thus maliciously, Thus breaking all the Rules of honesty, Of honour and of truth, for which I lov'd you, For which I call'd you servant, and admir'd you; To steal that Jewel purchas'd by another, Piously set in Wedlock, even that Jewel, Because it had no flaw, you held unvaluable: Can he that has lov'd good, dote on the Devil? For he that seeks a Whore, seeks but his Agent; Or am I of so wild and low a blood? So nurs'd in infamies? _Din._ I do not think so, And I repent. _Lam._ That will not serve your turn, Sir. _Din._ It was your treaty drew me on. _Lam._ But it was your villany Made you pursue it; I drew you but to try How much a man, and nobly thou durst stand, How well you had deserv'd the name of vertuous; But you like a wild torrent, mix'd with all Beastly and base affections came floating on, Swelling your poyson'd billows-- _Din._ Will you betray me? _Lam._ To all the miseries a vext Woman may. _Din._ Let me but out, Give me but room to toss my Sword about me, And I will tell you y'are a treacherous woman, O that I had but words! _Lam._ They will not serve you. _Din._ But two-edg'd words to cut thee; a Lady traytor? Perish by a proud Puppet? I did you too much honour, To tender you my love, too much respected you To think you worthy of my worst embraces. Go take your Groom, and let him dally with you, Your greasie Groom; I scorn to imp your lame stock, You are not fair, nor handsome, I lyed loudly, This tongue abus'd you when it spoke you beauteous. _Lam._ 'Tis very well, 'tis brave. _Din._ Put out your light, Your lascivious eyes are flames enough For Fools to find you out; a Lady Plotter! Must I begin your sacrifice of mischief? I and my friend, the first-fruits of that bloud, You and your honourable Husband aim at? Crooked and wretched you are both. _Lam._ To you, Sir, Yet to the Eye of Justice straight as Truth. _Din._ Is this a womans love? a womans mercy? Do you profess this seriously? do you laugh at me? _Lam._ Ha, ha. _Din._ Pl---- light upon your scorns, upon your flatteries, Upon your tempting faces, all destructions; A bedrid winter hang upon your cheeks, And blast, blast, blast those buds of Pride that paint you; Death in your eyes to fright men from these dangers: Raise up your trophy, _Cleremont_. _Cler._ What a vengeance ail you? _Din._ What dismal noise! is there no honour in you? _Cleremont_, we are betrayed, betrayed, sold by a woman; Deal bravely for thy self. _Cler._ This comes of rutting; Are we made stales to one another? _Din._ Yes, we are undone, lost. _Cler._ You shall pay for't grey-beard. Up, up, you sleep your last else. {_Lights above, two Servants {and_ Anabel. _1 Serv._ No, not yet, Sir, Lady, look up, would you have wrong'd this Beauty? Wake so tender a Virgin with rough terms? You wear a Sword, we must entreat you leave it. _2 Serv._ Fye Sir, so sweet a Lady? _Cler._ Was this my bed-fellow, pray give me leave to look, I am not mad yet, I may be by and by. Did this lye by me? Did I fear this? is this a Cause to shake at? Away with me for shame, I am a Rascal. _Enter_ Champernel, Beaupre, Verdone, Lamira, Anabel, Cleremont, _and two Servants_. _Din._ I am amaz'd too. _Beaup._ We'll recover you. _Verd._ You walk like _Robin-good-fellow_ all the house over, And every man afraid of you. _Din._ 'Tis well, Lady; The honour of this deed will be your own, The world shall know your bounty. _Beaup._ What shall we do with 'em? _Cler._ Geld me, For 'tis not fit I should be a man again, I am an Ass, a Dog. _Lam._ Take your revenges, You know my Husbands wrongs and your own losses. _Anab._ A brave man, an admirable brave man; Well, well, I would not be so tryed again; A very handsome proper Gentleman. _Cler._ Will you let me lye by her but one hour more, And then hang me? _Din._ We wait your malice, put your swords home bravely, You have reason to seek bloud. _Lam._ Not as you are noble. _Cham._ Hands off, and give them liberty, only disarm 'em. _Beaup._ We have done that already. _Cham._ You are welcome, Gentlemen, I am glad my house has any pleasure for you, I keep a couple of Ladies here, they say fair, And you are young and handsome, Gentlemen; Have you any more mind to Wenches? _Cler._ To be abus'd too? Lady, you might have help'd this. _Ana._ Sir now 'tis past, but 't may be I may stand Your friend hereafter, in a greater matter. _Cler._ Never whilst you live. _Ana._ You cannot tell--now, Sir, a parting hand. _Cler._ Down and Roses: Well I may live to see you again. A dull Rogue, No revelation in thee. _Lam._ Were you well frighted? Were your fitts from the heart, of all colds and colours? That's all your punishment. _Cler._ It might have been all yours, Had not a block-head undertaken it. _Cham._ Your swords you must leave to these Gentlemen. _Verd._ And now, when you dare fight, We are on even Ice again. _Din._ 'Tis well: To be a Mistris, is to be a monster, And so I leave your house, and you for ever. _Lam._ Leave your wild lusts, and then you are a master. _Cham._ You may depart too. _Cler._ I had rather stay here. _Cham._ Faith we shall fright you worse. _Cler._ Not in that manner, There's five hundred Crowns, fright me but so again. _Din._ Come _Cleremont_, this is the hour of fool. _Cler._ Wiser the next shall be or we'll to School. [_Exeunt._ _Champ._ How coolly these hot gallants are departed! Faith Cousin, 'twas unconscionably done, To lye so still, and so long. _Anab._ 'Twas your pleasure, If 'twere a fault, I may hereafter mend. _Champ._ O my best Wife, Take now what course thou wilt, and lead what life. _Lam._ The more trust you commit, the more care still, Goodness and vertue shall attend my will. _Cham._ Let's laugh this night out now, and count our gains. We have our honours home, and they their pains. [_Exeunt omnes._ _Actus Quartus. Scena Prima._ _Enter_ Cleremont, Dinant. _Din._ It holds, they will go thither. _Cler._ To their Summer-house? _Din._ Thither i'th' evening, and which is the most infliction, Only to insult upon our miseries. _Cler._ Are you provided? _Din._ Yes, yes. _Cler._ Throughly? _Din._ Throughly. _Cler._ Basta, enough, I have your mind, I will not fail you. _Din._ At such an hour. _Cler._ Have I a memory? A Cause, and Will to do? thou art so sullen-- _Din._ And shall be, till I have a fair reparation. _Cler._ I have more reason, for I scaped a fortune, Which if I come so near again: I say nothing, But if I sweat not in another fashion-- O, a delicate Wench. _Din._ 'Tis certain a most handsome one. _Cler._ And me thought the thing was angry with it self too It lay so long conceal'd, but I must part with you, I have a scene of mirth, to drive this from my heart, And my hour is come. _Din._ Miss not your time. _Cler._ I dare not. [_Exeunt severally._ _Enter_ Sampson, _and a Gentleman_. _Gent._ I presume, Sir, you now need no instruction, But fairly know, what belongs to a Gentleman; You bear your Uncles cause. _Sam._ Do not disturb me, I understand my cause, and the right carriage. _Gent._ Be not too bloody. _Sam._ As I find my enemy; if his sword bite, If it bite, Sir, you must pardon me. _Gent._ No doubt he is valiant, He durst not undertake else, _Sam._ He's most welcome, As he is most valiant, he were no man for me else. _Gent._ But say he should relent. _Sam._ He dies relenting, I cannot help it, he must di[e] relenting, If he pray, praying, _ipso facto_, praying, Your honourable way admits no prayer, And if he fight, he falls, there's his _quietus_. _Gent._ Y'are nobly punctual, let's retire and meet 'em, But still, I say, have mercy. _Samp._ I say, honour. [_Exeunt._ _Enter_ Champernel, Lamira, Anabel, Beaupre, Verdone, Charlote _and a Servant_. _Lam._ Will not you go sweet-heart? _Champ._ Go? I'le fly with thee. I stay behind? _Lam._ My Father will be there too, And all our best friends. _Beau._ And if we be not merry, We have hard luck, Lady. _Verd._ Faith let's have a kind of play. _Cham._ What shall it be? _Verd._ The story of _Dinant_. _Lam._ With the merry conceits of _Cleremont_, His Fits and Feavers. _Ana._ But I'le lie still no more. _Lam._ That, as you make the Play, 'twill be rare sport, And how 'twill vex my gallants, when they hear it! Have you given order for the Coach? _Charl._ Yes, Madam. _Cham._ My easie Nag, and padd. _Serv._ 'Tis making ready. _Champ._ Where are your Horses? _Beau._ Ready at an hour, Sir: we'll not be last. _Cham._ Fie, what a night shall we have! A roaring, merry night. _Lam._ We'll flie at all, Sir. _Cham._ I'le flie at thee too, finely, and so ruffle thee, I'le try your Art upon a Country pallet. _Lam._ Brag not too much, for fear I should expect it, Then if you fail-- _Cham._ Thou saiest too true, we all talk.

vertaign

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

villain, (But yet no coward) and sollicites me To my dishonour, that's indeed a quarrel, And truly mine, which I will so revenge, As it shall fright such as dare only think To be adulterers. _Cham._ Use thine own waies, I give up all to thee. _Beau._ O women, women! When you are pleas'd you are the least of evils. _Verd._ I'le rime to't, but provokt, the worst of Devils. [_Exeunt._ _Enter Monsieur_ Sampson, _and three Clients_. _Samp._ I know Monsieur _La-writ_. _1 Cly._ Would he knew himself, Sir. _Samp._ He was a pretty Lawyer, a kind of pretty Lawyer, Of a kind of unable thing. _2 Cly._ A fine Lawyer, Sir, And would have firk'd you up a business, And out of this Court into that. _Samp._ Ye are too forward Not so fine my friends, something he could have done, But short short. _1 Cly._ I know your worships favour, You are Nephew to the Judge, Sir. _Samp._ It may be so, And something may be done, without trotting i'th' dirt, friends; It may be I can take him in his Chamber, And have an hours talk, it may be so, And tell him that in's ear; there are such courtesies; I will not say, I can. _3 Cly._ We know you can, Sir. _Sam._ Peradventure I, peradventure no: but where's _La-writ_? Where's your sufficient Lawyer? _1 Cly._ He's blown up, Sir. _2 Cly._ Run mad and quarrels with the Dog he meets; He is no Lawyer of this world now. _Sam._ Your reason? Is he defunct? is he dead? _2 Cly._ No he's not dead yet, Sir; But I would be loth to take a lease on's life for two hours: Alas, he is possest Sir, with the spirit of fighting And quarrels with all people; but how he came to it-- _Samp._ If he fight well and like a Gentleman, The man may fight, for 'tis a lawfull calling. Look you my friends, I am a civil Gentleman, And my Lord my Uncle loves me. _3 Cly._ We all know it, Sir. _Sam._ I think he does, Sir, I have business too, much business, Turn you some forty or fifty Causes in a week; Yet when I get an hour of vacancie, I can fight too my friends, a little does well, I would be loth to learn to fight. _1 Cly._ But and't please you Sir, His fighting has neglected all our business, We are undone, our causes cast away, Sir, His not appearance. _Sam._ There he fought too long, A little and fight well, he fought too long indeed friends; But ne'r the less things must be as they may, And there be wayes-- _1 Cly._ We know, Sir, if you please-- _Sam._ Something I'le do: goe rally up your Causes. _Enter_ La-writ, _and a_ Gentleman, _at the door_. _2 Cly._ Now you may behold Sir, And be a witness, whether we lie or no. _La-writ._ I'le meet you at the Ordinary, sweet Gentlemen, And if there be a wench or two-- _Gen._ We'll have 'em. _La-writ._ No handling any Duells before I come, We'll have no going else, I hate a coward. _Gent._ There shall be nothing done. _La-writ._ Make all the quarrels You can devise before I come, and let's all fight, There is no sport else. _Gent._ We'll see what may be done, Sir. _1 Cly._ Ha? Monsieur _La-writ_. _La-writ._ Baffled in way of business, My causes cast away, Judgement against us? Why there it goes. _2 Cly._ What shall we do the whilst Sir? _La-wr._ Breed new dissentions, goe hang your selves 'Tis all one to me; I have a new trade of living. _1 Cli._ Do you hear what he saies Sir? _Sam._ The Gentleman speaks finely. _La-wr._ Will any of you fight? Fighting's my occupation If you find your selves aggriev'd. _Sam._ A compleat Gentleman. _La-writ._ Avant thou buckram budget of petitions, Thou spittle of lame causes; I lament for thee, And till revenge be taken-- _Sam._ 'Tis most excellent. _La-wr._ There, every man chuse his paper, and his place. I'le answer ye all, I will neglect no mans business But he shall have satisfaction like a Gentleman, The Judge may do and not do, he's but a Monsieur. _Sam._ You have nothing of mine in your bag, Sir. _La-writ._ I know not Sir, But you may put any thing in, any fighting thing. _Sam._ It is sufficient, you may hear hereafter. _La-writ._ I rest your servant Sir. _Sam._ No more words Gentlemen But follow me, no more words as you love me, The Gentleman's a noble Gentleman. I shall do what I can, and then-- _Cli._ We thank you Sir. [_Ex._ Sam. _and_ Clients. _Sam._ Not a word to disturb him, he's a Gentleman. _La-writ._ No cause go o' my side? the judge cast all? And because I was honourably employed in action, And not appear'd, pronounce? 'tis very well, 'Tis well faith, 'tis well, Judge. _Enter_ Cleremont. _Cler._ Who have we here? My little furious Lawyer? _La-writ._ I say 'tis well, But mark the end. _Cler._ How he is metamorphos'd! Nothing of Lawyer left, not a bit of buckram, No solliciting face now, This is no simple conversion. Your servant Sir, and Friend. _La-writ._ You come in time, Sir, _Cler._ The happier man, to be at your command then. _La-writ._ You may wonder to see me thus; but that's all one, Time shall declare; 'tis true I was a Lawyer, But I have mew'd that coat, I hate a Lawyer, I talk'd much in the Court, now I hate talking, I did you the office of a man. _Cler._ I must confess it. _La-w._ And budg'd not, no I budg'd not. _Cler._ No, you did not. _La-w._ There's it then, one good turn requires another. _Cler._ Most willing Sir, I am ready at your service. _La-w._ There, read, and understand, and then deliver it. _Cler._ This is a Challenge, Sir, _La-w._ 'Tis very like, Sir, I seldom now write Sonnets. _Cler._ _O admirantis_, To Monsieur _Vertaign_, the President. _La-w._ I chuse no Fool, Sir. _Cler._ Why, he's no Sword-man, Sir. _La-w._ Let him learn, let him learn, Time, that trains Chickens up, will teach him quickly. _Cler._ Why, he's a Judge, an Old Man. _La-w._ Never too Old To be a Gentleman; and he that is a Judge Can judge best what belongs to wounded honour. There are my griefs, he has cast away my causes, In which he has bowed my reputation. And therefore Judge, or no Judge. _Cler._ 'Pray be rul'd Sir, This is the maddest thing-- _La-w._ You will not carry it. _Cler._ I do not tell you so, but if you may be perswaded. _La-w._ You know how you us'd me when I would not fight, Do you remember, Gentleman? _Cler._ The Devil's in him. _La-w._ I see it in your Eyes, that you dare do it, You have a carrying face, and you shall carry it. _Cler._ The least is Banishment. _La-w._ Be banish'd then; 'Tis a friends part, we'll meet in _Africa_, Or any part of the Earth. _Cler._ Say he will not fight. _La-w._ I know then what to say, take you no care, Sir, _Cler._ Well, I will carry it, and deliver it, And to morrow morning meet you in the Louver, Till when, my service. _La-w._ A Judge, or no Judge, no Judge. [_Exit_ La-writ. _Cler._ This is the prettiest Rogue that e'r I read of, None to provoke to th' field, but the old President; What face shall I put on? if I come in earnest, I am sure to wear a pair of Bracelets; This may make some sport yet, I will deliver it, Here comes the President. _Enter_ Vertaign, _with two Gentlemen_. _Vert._ I shall find time, Gentlemen, To do your causes good, is not that _Cleremont_? _1 Gent._ 'Tis he my Lord. _Vert._ Why does he smile upon me? Am I become ridiculous? has your fortune, Sir, Upon my Son, made you contemn his Father? The glory of a Gentleman is fair bearing. _Cler._ Mistake me not my Lord, you shall not find that, I come with no blown Spirit to abuse you, I know your place and honour due unto it, The reverence to your silver Age and Vertue. _Vert._ Your face is merry still. _Cler._ So is my business, And I beseech your honour mistake me not, I have brought you from a wild or rather Mad-man As mad a piece of--you were wont to love mirth In your young days, I have known your Honour woo it, This may be made no little one, 'tis a Challenge, Sir, Nay, start not, I beseech you, it means you no harm, Nor any Man of Honour, or Understanding, 'Tis to steal from your serious hours a little laughter; I am bold to bring it to your Lordship. _Vert._ 'Tis to me indeed: Do they take me for a Sword-man at these years? _Cler._ 'Tis only worth your Honours Mirth, that's all Sir, 'Thad been in me else a sawcy rudeness. _Vert._ From one _La-writ_, a very punctual Challenge. _Cler._ But if your Lordship mark it, no great matter. _Vert._ I have known such a wrangling Advocate, Such a little figent thing; Oh I remember him, A notable talking Knave, now out upon him, Has challeng'd me downright, defied me mortally I do remember too, I cast his Causes. _Cler._ Why, there's the quarrel, Sir, the mortal quarrel. _Vert._ Why, what a Knave is this? as y'are a Gentleman, Is there no further purpose but meer mirth? What a bold Man of War! he invites me roundly. _Cler._ If there should be, I were no Gentleman, Nor worthy of the honour of my Kindred. And though I am sure your Lordship hates my Person, Which Time may bring again into your favour, Yet for the manners-- _Vert._ I am satisfied, You see, Sir, I have out-liv'd those days of fighting, And therefore cannot do him the honour to beat him my self; But I have a Kinsman much of his ability, His Wit and Courage, for this call him Fool, One that will spit as senseless fire as this Fellow. _Cler._ And such a man to undertake, my Lord? _Vert._ Nay he's too forward; these two pitch Barrels together. _Cler._ Upon my soul, no harm. _Vert._ It makes me smile, Why, what a stinking smother will they utter! Yes, he shall undertake, Sir, as my Champion, Since you propound it mirth, I'll venture on it, And shall defend my cause, but as y'are honest Sport not with bloud. _Cler._ Think not so basely, good Sir. _Vert._ A Squire shall wait upon you from my Kinsman, To morrow morning make you sport at full, You want no Subject; but no wounds. _Cler._ That's my care. _Ver._ And so good day. [_Ex._ Vertaign, _and Gentlemen_. _Cler._ Many unto your honour. This is a noble Fellow, of a sweet Spirit, Now must I think how to contrive this matter, For together they shall go. _Enter_ Dinant. _Din._ O _Cleremont_, I am glad I have found thee. _Cler._ I can tell thee rare things. _Din._ O, I can tell thee rarer, Dost thou love me? _Cler._ Love thee? _Din._ Dost thou love me dearly? Dar'st thou for my sake? _Cler._ Any thing that's honest. _Din._ Though it be dangerous? _Cler._ Pox o' dangerous. _Din._ Nay wondrous dangerous. _Cler._ Wilt thou break my heart? _Din._ Along with me then. _Cler._ I must part to morrow. _Din._ You shall, you shall, be faithful for this night, And thou hast made thy friend. _Cler._ Away, and talk not. [_Exeunt._ _Enter_ Lamira, _and Nurse_. _Lam._ O Nurse, welcome, where's _Dinant_? _Nurse._ He's at my back. 'Tis the most liberal Gentleman, this Gold He gave me for my pains, nor can I blame you, If you yield up the fort. _Lam._ How? yield it up? _Nurse._ I know not, he that loves, and gives so largely, And a young Lord to boot, or I am cozen'd, May enter every where. _Lam._ Thou'lt make me angry. _Enter_ Dinant, _and_ Cleremont. _Nur._ Why, if you are, I hope here's one will please you, Look on him with my Eyes, good luck go with you: Were I young for your sake-- _Din._ I thank thee, Nurse. _Nur._ I would be tractable, and as I am-- _Lam._ Leave the room, So old, and so immodest! and be careful, Since whispers will 'wake sleeping jealousies, That none disturb my Lord. [_Exit Nurse._ _Cler._ Will you dispatch? Till you come to the matter be not rapt thus, Walk in, walk in, I am your scout for once, You owe me the like service. _Din._ And will pay it. _Lam._ As you respect our lives, speak not so loud. _Cler._ Why, do it in dumb shew then, I am silenc'd. _Lam._ Be not so hasty, Sir, the golden Apples Had a fell Dragon for their Guard, your pleasures Are to be attempted with _Herculean_ danger, Or never to be gotten. _Din._ Speak the means. _Lam._ Thus briefly, my Lord sleeps now, and alas, Each Night, he only sleeps. _Cler._ Go, keep her stirring. _Lam._ Now if he 'wake, as sometimes he does, He only stretches out his hand and feels, Whether I am a bed, which being assur'd of, He sleeps again; but should he miss me, Valour Could not defend our lives. _Din._ What's to be done then? _Lam._ Servants have servile faiths, nor have I any That I dare trust; on noble _Cleremont_ We safely may rely. _Cler._ What man can do, Command and boldly. _Lam._ Thus then in my place, You must lye with my Lord. _Cler._ With an old man? Two Beards together, that's preposterous. _Lam._ There is no other way, and though 'tis dangerous, He having servants within call, and arm'd too, Slaves fed to act all that his jealousie And rage commands them, yet a true friend should not Check at the hazard of a life. _Cler._ I thank you, I love my friend, but know no reason why To hate my self; to be a kind of pander, You see I am willing, But to betray mine own throat you must pardon. _Din._ Then I am lost, and all my hopes defeated, Were I to hazard ten times more for you, You should find, _Cleremont_-- _Cler._ You shall not outdo me, Fall what may fall, I'll do't. _Din._ But for his Beard-- _Lam._ To cover that you shall have my night Linnen, And you dispos'd of, my _Dinant_ and I Will have some private conference. _Enter_ Champernel, _privately_. _Cler._ Private doing, Or I'll not venture. _Lam._ That's as we agree. [_Exeunt._ _Enter Nurse, and_ Charlotte, _pass over the Stage with Pillows, Night cloaths, and such things_. _Cham._ What can this Woman do, preserving her honour? I have given her all the liberty that may be, I will not be far off though, nor I will not be jealous, Nor trust too much, I think she is vertuous, Yet when I hold her best, she's but a Woman, As full of frailty as of faith, a poor sleight Woman, And her best thoughts, but weak fortifications, There may be a Mine wrought: Well, let 'em work then, I shall meet with it, till the signs be monstrous, And stick upon my head, I will not believe it, [_Stands private._ She may be, and she may not, now to my observation. _Enter_ Dinant, _and_ Lamira. _Din._ Why do you make me stay so? if you love me-- _Lam._ You are too hot and violent. _Din._ Why do you shift thus From one Chamber to another? _Lam._ A little delay, Sir, Like fire, a little sprinkled o'r with water Makes the desires burn clear, and ten times hotter. _Din._ Why do you speak so loud? I pray'e go in, Sweet Mistriss, I am mad, time steals away, And when we would enjoy-- _Lam._ Now fie, fie, Servant, Like sensual Beasts shall we enjoy our pleasures? _Din._ 'Pray do not kiss me then. _Lam._ Why, that I will, and you shall find anon, servant. _Din._ Softly, for heavens sake, you know my friend's engag'd, A little now, now; will ye go in again? _Lam._ Ha, ha, ha, ha. _Din._ Why do you laugh so loud, Precious? Will you betray me; ha' my friends throat cut? _Lam._ Come, come, I'll kiss thee again. _Cham._ Will you so? you are liberal, If you do cozen me-- _Enter Nurse with Wine._ _Din._ What's this? _Lam._ Wine, Wine, a draught or two. _Din._ What does this Woman here? _Lam._ She shall not hinder you. _Din._ This might have been spar'd, 'Tis but delay and time lost; pray send her softly off. _Lam._ Sit down, and mix your spirits with Wine, I will make you another _Hercules_. _Din._ I dare not drink; Fie, what delays you make! I dare not, I shall be drunk presently, and do strange things then. _Lam._ Not drink a cup with your Mistriss! O the pleasure. _Din._ Lady, why this? [_Musick._ _Lam._ We must have mirth to our Wine, Man. _Din._ Pl---- o' the Musick. _Champ._ God-a-mercy Wench, If thou dost cuckold me I shall forgive thee. _Din._ The house will all rise now, this will disturb all. Did you do this? _Lam._ Peace, and sit quiet, fool, You love me, come, sit down and drink. _Enter_ Cleremont _above_. _Cler._ What a Devil ail you? How cold I sweat! a hogs pox stop your pipes, [_Musick._ The thing will 'wake; now, now, methinks I find His Sword just gliding through my throat. What's that? A vengeance choak your pipes. Are you there, Lady? Stop, stop those Rascals; do you bring me hither To be cut into minced meat? why _Dinant_? _Din._ I cannot do withal; I have spoke, and spoke; I am betray'd and lost too. _Cler._ Do you hear me? do you understand me? 'Plague dam your Whistles. [_Musick ends._ _Lam._ 'Twas but an over-sight, they have done, lye down. _Cler._ Would you had done too, You know not In what a misery and fear I lye. You have a Lady in your arms. _Din._ I would have-- [_The Recorders again._ _Champ._ I'll watch you Goodman Wou'd have. _Cler._ Remove for Heavens sake, And fall to that you come for. _Lam._ Lie you down, 'Tis but an hours endurance now. _Cler._ I dare not, softly sweet Lady ----heart? _Lam._ 'Tis nothing but your fear, he sleeps still soundly, Lie gently down. _Cler._ 'Pray make an end. _Din._ Come, Madam. _Lam._ These Chambers are too near. [_Ex._ Din. Lam. _Cham._ I shall be nearer; Well, go thy wayes, I'le trust thee through the world, Deal how thou wilt: that that I never feel, I'le never fear. Yet by the honour of a Souldier, I hold thee truly noble: How these things will look, And how their blood will curdle! Play on Children, You shall have pap anon. O thou grand Fool, That thou knew'st but thy fortune-- [_Musick done._ _Cler._ Peace, good Madam, Stop her mouth, _Dinant_, it sleeps yet, 'pray be wary, Dispatch, I cannot endure this misery, I can hear nothing more; I'll say my prayers, And down again-- [_Whistle within._ A thousand Alarms fall upon my quarters, Heaven send me off; when I lye keeping Courses. Pl---- o' your fumbling, _Dinant_; how I shake! 'Tis still again: would I were in the _Indies_. [_Exit_ Cler. _Enter_ Dinant, _and_ Lamira: _a light within_. _Din._ Why do you use me thus? thus poorly? basely? Work me into a hope, and then destroy me? Why did you send for me? this new way train me? _Lam._ Mad-man, and fool, and false man, now I'll shew thee. _Din._ 'Pray put your light out. _Lam._ Nay I'll hold it thus, That all chaste Eyes may see thy lust, and scorn it. Tell me but this when you first doted on me, And made suit to enjoy me as your Wife, Did you not hold me honest? _Din._ Yes, most vertuous. _Lam._ And did not that appear the only lustre That made me worth your love and admiration? _Din._ I must confess-- _Lam._ Why would you deal so basely? So like a thief, a Villain? _Din._ Peace, good Madam. _Lam._ I'll speak aloud too; thus maliciously, Thus breaking all the Rules of honesty, Of honour and of truth, for which I lov'd you, For which I call'd you servant, and admir'd you; To steal that Jewel purchas'd by another, Piously set in Wedlock, even that Jewel, Because it had no flaw, you held unvaluable: Can he that has lov'd good, dote on the Devil? For he that seeks a Whore, seeks but his Agent; Or am I of so wild and low a blood? So nurs'd in infamies? _Din._ I do not think so, And I repent. _Lam._ That will not serve your turn, Sir. _Din._ It was your treaty drew me on. _Lam._ But it was your villany Made you pursue it; I drew you but to try How much a man, and nobly thou durst stand, How well you had deserv'd the name of vertuous; But you like a wild torrent, mix'd with all Beastly and base affections came floating on, Swelling your poyson'd billows-- _Din._ Will you betray me? _Lam._ To all the miseries a vext Woman may. _Din._ Let me but out, Give me but room to toss my Sword about me, And I will tell you y'are a treacherous woman, O that I had but words! _Lam._ They will not serve you. _Din._ But two-edg'd words to cut thee; a Lady traytor? Perish by a proud Puppet? I did you too much honour, To tender you my love, too much respected you To think you worthy of my worst embraces. Go take your Groom, and let him dally with you, Your greasie Groom; I scorn to imp your lame stock, You are not fair, nor handsome, I lyed loudly, This tongue abus'd you when it spoke you beauteous. _Lam._ 'Tis very well, 'tis brave. _Din._ Put out your light, Your lascivious eyes are flames enough For Fools to find you out; a Lady Plotter! Must I begin your sacrifice of mischief? I and my friend, the first-fruits of that bloud, You and your honourable Husband aim at? Crooked and wretched you are both. _Lam._ To you, Sir, Yet to the Eye of Justice straight as Truth. _Din._ Is this a womans love? a womans mercy? Do you profess this seriously? do you laugh at me? _Lam._ Ha, ha. _Din._ Pl---- light upon your scorns, upon your flatteries, Upon your tempting faces, all destructions; A bedrid winter hang upon your cheeks, And blast, blast, blast those buds of Pride that paint you; Death in your eyes to fright men from these dangers: Raise up your trophy, _Cleremont_. _Cler._ What a vengeance ail you? _Din._ What dismal noise! is there no honour in you? _Cleremont_, we are betrayed, betrayed, sold by a woman; Deal bravely for thy self. _Cler._ This comes of rutting; Are we made stales to one another? _Din._ Yes, we are undone, lost. _Cler._ You shall pay for't grey-beard. Up, up, you sleep your last else. {_Lights above, two Servants {and_ Anabel. _1 Serv._ No, not yet, Sir, Lady, look up, would you have wrong'd this Beauty? Wake so tender a Virgin with rough terms? You wear a Sword, we must entreat you leave it. _2 Serv._ Fye Sir, so sweet a Lady? _Cler._ Was this my bed-fellow, pray give me leave to look, I am not mad yet, I may be by and by. Did this lye by me? Did I fear this? is this a Cause to shake at? Away with me for shame, I am a Rascal. _Enter_ Champernel, Beaupre, Verdone, Lamira, Anabel, Cleremont, _and two Servants_. _Din._ I am amaz'd too. _Beaup._ We'll recover you. _Verd._ You walk like _Robin-good-fellow_ all the house over, And every man afraid of you. _Din._ 'Tis well, Lady; The honour of this deed will be your own, The world shall know your bounty. _Beaup._ What shall we do with 'em? _Cler._ Geld me, For 'tis not fit I should be a man again, I am an Ass, a Dog. _Lam._ Take your revenges, You know my Husbands wrongs and your own losses. _Anab._ A brave man, an admirable brave man; Well, well, I would not be so tryed again; A very handsome proper Gentleman. _Cler._ Will you let me lye by her but one hour more, And then hang me? _Din._ We wait your malice, put your swords home bravely, You have reason to seek bloud. _Lam._ Not as you are noble. _Cham._ Hands off, and give them liberty, only disarm 'em. _Beaup._ We have done that already. _Cham._ You are welcome, Gentlemen, I am glad my house has any pleasure for you, I keep a couple of Ladies here, they say fair, And you are young and handsome, Gentlemen; Have you any more mind to Wenches? _Cler._ To be abus'd too? Lady, you might have help'd this. _Ana._ Sir now 'tis past, but 't may be I may stand Your friend hereafter, in a greater matter. _Cler._ Never whilst you live. _Ana._ You cannot tell--now, Sir, a parting hand. _Cler._ Down and Roses: Well I may live to see you again. A dull Rogue, No revelation in thee. _Lam._ Were you well frighted? Were your fitts from the heart, of all colds and colours? That's all your punishment. _Cler._ It might have been all yours, Had not a block-head undertaken it. _Cham._ Your swords you must leave to these Gentlemen. _Verd._ And now, when you dare fight, We are on even Ice again. _Din._ 'Tis well: To be a Mistris, is to be a monster, And so I leave your house, and you for ever. _Lam._ Leave your wild lusts, and then you are a master. _Cham._ You may depart too. _Cler._ I had rather stay here. _Cham._ Faith we shall fright you worse. _Cler._ Not in that manner, There's five hundred Crowns, fright me but so again. _Din._ Come _Cleremont_, this is the hour of fool. _Cler._ Wiser the next shall be or we'll to School. [_Exeunt._ _Champ._ How coolly these hot gallants are departed! Faith Cousin, 'twas unconscionably done, To lye so still, and so long. _Anab._ 'Twas your pleasure, If 'twere a fault, I may hereafter mend. _Champ._ O my best Wife, Take now what course thou wilt, and lead what life. _Lam._ The more trust you commit, the more care still, Goodness and vertue shall attend my will. _Cham._ Let's laugh this night out now, and count our gains. We have our honours home, and they their pains. [_Exeunt omnes._ _Actus Quartus. Scena Prima._ _Enter_ Cleremont, Dinant. _Din._ It holds, they will go thither. _Cler._ To their Summer-house? _Din._ Thither i'th' evening, and which is the most infliction, Only to insult upon our miseries. _Cler._ Are you provided? _Din._ Yes, yes. _Cler._ Throughly? _Din._ Throughly. _Cler._ Basta, enough, I have your mind, I will not fail you. _Din._ At such an hour. _Cler._ Have I a memory? A Cause, and Will to do? thou art so sullen-- _Din._ And shall be, till I have a fair reparation. _Cler._ I have more reason, for I scaped a fortune, Which if I come so near again: I say nothing, But if I sweat not in another fashion-- O, a delicate Wench. _Din._ 'Tis certain a most handsome one. _Cler._ And me thought the thing was angry with it self too It lay so long conceal'd, but I must part with you, I have a scene of mirth, to drive this from my heart, And my hour is come. _Din._ Miss not your time. _Cler._ I dare not. [_Exeunt severally._ _Enter_ Sampson, _and a Gentleman_. _Gent._ I presume, Sir, you now need no instruction, But fairly know, what belongs to a Gentleman; You bear your Uncles cause. _Sam._ Do not disturb me, I understand my cause, and the right carriage. _Gent._ Be not too bloody. _Sam._ As I find my enemy; if his sword bite, If it bite, Sir, you must pardon me. _Gent._ No doubt he is valiant, He durst not undertake else, _Sam._ He's most welcome, As he is most valiant, he were no man for me else. _Gent._ But say he should relent. _Sam._ He dies relenting, I cannot help it, he must di[e] relenting, If he pray, praying, _ipso facto_, praying, Your honourable way admits no prayer, And if he fight, he falls, there's his _quietus_. _Gent._ Y'are nobly punctual, let's retire and meet 'em, But still, I say, have mercy. _Samp._ I say, honour. [_Exeunt._ _Enter_ Champernel, Lamira, Anabel, Beaupre, Verdone, Charlote _and a Servant_. _Lam._ Will not you go sweet-heart? _Champ._ Go? I'le fly with thee. I stay behind? _Lam._ My Father will be there too, And all our best friends. _Beau._ And if we be not merry, We have hard luck, Lady. _Verd._ Faith let's have a kind of play. _Cham._ What shall it be? _Verd._ The story of _Dinant_. _Lam._ With the merry conceits of _Cleremont_, His Fits and Feavers. _Ana._ But I'le lie still no more. _Lam._ That, as you make the Play, 'twill be rare sport, And how 'twill vex my gallants, when they hear it! Have you given order for the Coach? _Charl._ Yes, Madam. _Cham._ My easie Nag, and padd. _Serv._ 'Tis making ready. _Champ._ Where are your Horses? _Beau._ Ready at an hour, Sir: we'll not be last. _Cham._ Fie, what a night shall we have! A roaring, merry night. _Lam._ We'll flie at all, Sir. _Cham._ I'le flie at thee too, finely, and so ruffle thee, I'le try your Art upon a Country pallet. _Lam._ Brag not too much, for fear I should expect it, Then if you fail-- _Cham._ Thou saiest too true, we all talk.

fine

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

villain, (But yet no coward) and sollicites me To my dishonour, that's indeed a quarrel, And truly mine, which I will so revenge, As it shall fright such as dare only think To be adulterers. _Cham._ Use thine own waies, I give up all to thee. _Beau._ O women, women! When you are pleas'd you are the least of evils. _Verd._ I'le rime to't, but provokt, the worst of Devils. [_Exeunt._ _Enter Monsieur_ Sampson, _and three Clients_. _Samp._ I know Monsieur _La-writ_. _1 Cly._ Would he knew himself, Sir. _Samp._ He was a pretty Lawyer, a kind of pretty Lawyer, Of a kind of unable thing. _2 Cly._ A fine Lawyer, Sir, And would have firk'd you up a business, And out of this Court into that. _Samp._ Ye are too forward Not so fine my friends, something he could have done, But short short. _1 Cly._ I know your worships favour, You are Nephew to the Judge, Sir. _Samp._ It may be so, And something may be done, without trotting i'th' dirt, friends; It may be I can take him in his Chamber, And have an hours talk, it may be so, And tell him that in's ear; there are such courtesies; I will not say, I can. _3 Cly._ We know you can, Sir. _Sam._ Peradventure I, peradventure no: but where's _La-writ_? Where's your sufficient Lawyer? _1 Cly._ He's blown up, Sir. _2 Cly._ Run mad and quarrels with the Dog he meets; He is no Lawyer of this world now. _Sam._ Your reason? Is he defunct? is he dead? _2 Cly._ No he's not dead yet, Sir; But I would be loth to take a lease on's life for two hours: Alas, he is possest Sir, with the spirit of fighting And quarrels with all people; but how he came to it-- _Samp._ If he fight well and like a Gentleman, The man may fight, for 'tis a lawfull calling. Look you my friends, I am a civil Gentleman, And my Lord my Uncle loves me. _3 Cly._ We all know it, Sir. _Sam._ I think he does, Sir, I have business too, much business, Turn you some forty or fifty Causes in a week; Yet when I get an hour of vacancie, I can fight too my friends, a little does well, I would be loth to learn to fight. _1 Cly._ But and't please you Sir, His fighting has neglected all our business, We are undone, our causes cast away, Sir, His not appearance. _Sam._ There he fought too long, A little and fight well, he fought too long indeed friends; But ne'r the less things must be as they may, And there be wayes-- _1 Cly._ We know, Sir, if you please-- _Sam._ Something I'le do: goe rally up your Causes. _Enter_ La-writ, _and a_ Gentleman, _at the door_. _2 Cly._ Now you may behold Sir, And be a witness, whether we lie or no. _La-writ._ I'le meet you at the Ordinary, sweet Gentlemen, And if there be a wench or two-- _Gen._ We'll have 'em. _La-writ._ No handling any Duells before I come, We'll have no going else, I hate a coward. _Gent._ There shall be nothing done. _La-writ._ Make all the quarrels You can devise before I come, and let's all fight, There is no sport else. _Gent._ We'll see what may be done, Sir. _1 Cly._ Ha? Monsieur _La-writ_. _La-writ._ Baffled in way of business, My causes cast away, Judgement against us? Why there it goes. _2 Cly._ What shall we do the whilst Sir? _La-wr._ Breed new dissentions, goe hang your selves 'Tis all one to me; I have a new trade of living. _1 Cli._ Do you hear what he saies Sir? _Sam._ The Gentleman speaks finely. _La-wr._ Will any of you fight? Fighting's my occupation If you find your selves aggriev'd. _Sam._ A compleat Gentleman. _La-writ._ Avant thou buckram budget of petitions, Thou spittle of lame causes; I lament for thee, And till revenge be taken-- _Sam._ 'Tis most excellent. _La-wr._ There, every man chuse his paper, and his place. I'le answer ye all, I will neglect no mans business But he shall have satisfaction like a Gentleman, The Judge may do and not do, he's but a Monsieur. _Sam._ You have nothing of mine in your bag, Sir. _La-writ._ I know not Sir, But you may put any thing in, any fighting thing. _Sam._ It is sufficient, you may hear hereafter. _La-writ._ I rest your servant Sir. _Sam._ No more words Gentlemen But follow me, no more words as you love me, The Gentleman's a noble Gentleman. I shall do what I can, and then-- _Cli._ We thank you Sir. [_Ex._ Sam. _and_ Clients. _Sam._ Not a word to disturb him, he's a Gentleman. _La-writ._ No cause go o' my side? the judge cast all? And because I was honourably employed in action, And not appear'd, pronounce? 'tis very well, 'Tis well faith, 'tis well, Judge. _Enter_ Cleremont. _Cler._ Who have we here? My little furious Lawyer? _La-writ._ I say 'tis well, But mark the end. _Cler._ How he is metamorphos'd! Nothing of Lawyer left, not a bit of buckram, No solliciting face now, This is no simple conversion. Your servant Sir, and Friend. _La-writ._ You come in time, Sir, _Cler._ The happier man, to be at your command then. _La-writ._ You may wonder to see me thus; but that's all one, Time shall declare; 'tis true I was a Lawyer, But I have mew'd that coat, I hate a Lawyer, I talk'd much in the Court, now I hate talking, I did you the office of a man. _Cler._ I must confess it. _La-w._ And budg'd not, no I budg'd not. _Cler._ No, you did not. _La-w._ There's it then, one good turn requires another. _Cler._ Most willing Sir, I am ready at your service. _La-w._ There, read, and understand, and then deliver it. _Cler._ This is a Challenge, Sir, _La-w._ 'Tis very like, Sir, I seldom now write Sonnets. _Cler._ _O admirantis_, To Monsieur _Vertaign_, the President. _La-w._ I chuse no Fool, Sir. _Cler._ Why, he's no Sword-man, Sir. _La-w._ Let him learn, let him learn, Time, that trains Chickens up, will teach him quickly. _Cler._ Why, he's a Judge, an Old Man. _La-w._ Never too Old To be a Gentleman; and he that is a Judge Can judge best what belongs to wounded honour. There are my griefs, he has cast away my causes, In which he has bowed my reputation. And therefore Judge, or no Judge. _Cler._ 'Pray be rul'd Sir, This is the maddest thing-- _La-w._ You will not carry it. _Cler._ I do not tell you so, but if you may be perswaded. _La-w._ You know how you us'd me when I would not fight, Do you remember, Gentleman? _Cler._ The Devil's in him. _La-w._ I see it in your Eyes, that you dare do it, You have a carrying face, and you shall carry it. _Cler._ The least is Banishment. _La-w._ Be banish'd then; 'Tis a friends part, we'll meet in _Africa_, Or any part of the Earth. _Cler._ Say he will not fight. _La-w._ I know then what to say, take you no care, Sir, _Cler._ Well, I will carry it, and deliver it, And to morrow morning meet you in the Louver, Till when, my service. _La-w._ A Judge, or no Judge, no Judge. [_Exit_ La-writ. _Cler._ This is the prettiest Rogue that e'r I read of, None to provoke to th' field, but the old President; What face shall I put on? if I come in earnest, I am sure to wear a pair of Bracelets; This may make some sport yet, I will deliver it, Here comes the President. _Enter_ Vertaign, _with two Gentlemen_. _Vert._ I shall find time, Gentlemen, To do your causes good, is not that _Cleremont_? _1 Gent._ 'Tis he my Lord. _Vert._ Why does he smile upon me? Am I become ridiculous? has your fortune, Sir, Upon my Son, made you contemn his Father? The glory of a Gentleman is fair bearing. _Cler._ Mistake me not my Lord, you shall not find that, I come with no blown Spirit to abuse you, I know your place and honour due unto it, The reverence to your silver Age and Vertue. _Vert._ Your face is merry still. _Cler._ So is my business, And I beseech your honour mistake me not, I have brought you from a wild or rather Mad-man As mad a piece of--you were wont to love mirth In your young days, I have known your Honour woo it, This may be made no little one, 'tis a Challenge, Sir, Nay, start not, I beseech you, it means you no harm, Nor any Man of Honour, or Understanding, 'Tis to steal from your serious hours a little laughter; I am bold to bring it to your Lordship. _Vert._ 'Tis to me indeed: Do they take me for a Sword-man at these years? _Cler._ 'Tis only worth your Honours Mirth, that's all Sir, 'Thad been in me else a sawcy rudeness. _Vert._ From one _La-writ_, a very punctual Challenge. _Cler._ But if your Lordship mark it, no great matter. _Vert._ I have known such a wrangling Advocate, Such a little figent thing; Oh I remember him, A notable talking Knave, now out upon him, Has challeng'd me downright, defied me mortally I do remember too, I cast his Causes. _Cler._ Why, there's the quarrel, Sir, the mortal quarrel. _Vert._ Why, what a Knave is this? as y'are a Gentleman, Is there no further purpose but meer mirth? What a bold Man of War! he invites me roundly. _Cler._ If there should be, I were no Gentleman, Nor worthy of the honour of my Kindred. And though I am sure your Lordship hates my Person, Which Time may bring again into your favour, Yet for the manners-- _Vert._ I am satisfied, You see, Sir, I have out-liv'd those days of fighting, And therefore cannot do him the honour to beat him my self; But I have a Kinsman much of his ability, His Wit and Courage, for this call him Fool, One that will spit as senseless fire as this Fellow. _Cler._ And such a man to undertake, my Lord? _Vert._ Nay he's too forward; these two pitch Barrels together. _Cler._ Upon my soul, no harm. _Vert._ It makes me smile, Why, what a stinking smother will they utter! Yes, he shall undertake, Sir, as my Champion, Since you propound it mirth, I'll venture on it, And shall defend my cause, but as y'are honest Sport not with bloud. _Cler._ Think not so basely, good Sir. _Vert._ A Squire shall wait upon you from my Kinsman, To morrow morning make you sport at full, You want no Subject; but no wounds. _Cler._ That's my care. _Ver._ And so good day. [_Ex._ Vertaign, _and Gentlemen_. _Cler._ Many unto your honour. This is a noble Fellow, of a sweet Spirit, Now must I think how to contrive this matter, For together they shall go. _Enter_ Dinant. _Din._ O _Cleremont_, I am glad I have found thee. _Cler._ I can tell thee rare things. _Din._ O, I can tell thee rarer, Dost thou love me? _Cler._ Love thee? _Din._ Dost thou love me dearly? Dar'st thou for my sake? _Cler._ Any thing that's honest. _Din._ Though it be dangerous? _Cler._ Pox o' dangerous. _Din._ Nay wondrous dangerous. _Cler._ Wilt thou break my heart? _Din._ Along with me then. _Cler._ I must part to morrow. _Din._ You shall, you shall, be faithful for this night, And thou hast made thy friend. _Cler._ Away, and talk not. [_Exeunt._ _Enter_ Lamira, _and Nurse_. _Lam._ O Nurse, welcome, where's _Dinant_? _Nurse._ He's at my back. 'Tis the most liberal Gentleman, this Gold He gave me for my pains, nor can I blame you, If you yield up the fort. _Lam._ How? yield it up? _Nurse._ I know not, he that loves, and gives so largely, And a young Lord to boot, or I am cozen'd, May enter every where. _Lam._ Thou'lt make me angry. _Enter_ Dinant, _and_ Cleremont. _Nur._ Why, if you are, I hope here's one will please you, Look on him with my Eyes, good luck go with you: Were I young for your sake-- _Din._ I thank thee, Nurse. _Nur._ I would be tractable, and as I am-- _Lam._ Leave the room, So old, and so immodest! and be careful, Since whispers will 'wake sleeping jealousies, That none disturb my Lord. [_Exit Nurse._ _Cler._ Will you dispatch? Till you come to the matter be not rapt thus, Walk in, walk in, I am your scout for once, You owe me the like service. _Din._ And will pay it. _Lam._ As you respect our lives, speak not so loud. _Cler._ Why, do it in dumb shew then, I am silenc'd. _Lam._ Be not so hasty, Sir, the golden Apples Had a fell Dragon for their Guard, your pleasures Are to be attempted with _Herculean_ danger, Or never to be gotten. _Din._ Speak the means. _Lam._ Thus briefly, my Lord sleeps now, and alas, Each Night, he only sleeps. _Cler._ Go, keep her stirring. _Lam._ Now if he 'wake, as sometimes he does, He only stretches out his hand and feels, Whether I am a bed, which being assur'd of, He sleeps again; but should he miss me, Valour Could not defend our lives. _Din._ What's to be done then? _Lam._ Servants have servile faiths, nor have I any That I dare trust; on noble _Cleremont_ We safely may rely. _Cler._ What man can do, Command and boldly. _Lam._ Thus then in my place, You must lye with my Lord. _Cler._ With an old man? Two Beards together, that's preposterous. _Lam._ There is no other way, and though 'tis dangerous, He having servants within call, and arm'd too, Slaves fed to act all that his jealousie And rage commands them, yet a true friend should not Check at the hazard of a life. _Cler._ I thank you, I love my friend, but know no reason why To hate my self; to be a kind of pander, You see I am willing, But to betray mine own throat you must pardon. _Din._ Then I am lost, and all my hopes defeated, Were I to hazard ten times more for you, You should find, _Cleremont_-- _Cler._ You shall not outdo me, Fall what may fall, I'll do't. _Din._ But for his Beard-- _Lam._ To cover that you shall have my night Linnen, And you dispos'd of, my _Dinant_ and I Will have some private conference. _Enter_ Champernel, _privately_. _Cler._ Private doing, Or I'll not venture. _Lam._ That's as we agree. [_Exeunt._ _Enter Nurse, and_ Charlotte, _pass over the Stage with Pillows, Night cloaths, and such things_. _Cham._ What can this Woman do, preserving her honour? I have given her all the liberty that may be, I will not be far off though, nor I will not be jealous, Nor trust too much, I think she is vertuous, Yet when I hold her best, she's but a Woman, As full of frailty as of faith, a poor sleight Woman, And her best thoughts, but weak fortifications, There may be a Mine wrought: Well, let 'em work then, I shall meet with it, till the signs be monstrous, And stick upon my head, I will not believe it, [_Stands private._ She may be, and she may not, now to my observation. _Enter_ Dinant, _and_ Lamira. _Din._ Why do you make me stay so? if you love me-- _Lam._ You are too hot and violent. _Din._ Why do you shift thus From one Chamber to another? _Lam._ A little delay, Sir, Like fire, a little sprinkled o'r with water Makes the desires burn clear, and ten times hotter. _Din._ Why do you speak so loud? I pray'e go in, Sweet Mistriss, I am mad, time steals away, And when we would enjoy-- _Lam._ Now fie, fie, Servant, Like sensual Beasts shall we enjoy our pleasures? _Din._ 'Pray do not kiss me then. _Lam._ Why, that I will, and you shall find anon, servant. _Din._ Softly, for heavens sake, you know my friend's engag'd, A little now, now; will ye go in again? _Lam._ Ha, ha, ha, ha. _Din._ Why do you laugh so loud, Precious? Will you betray me; ha' my friends throat cut? _Lam._ Come, come, I'll kiss thee again. _Cham._ Will you so? you are liberal, If you do cozen me-- _Enter Nurse with Wine._ _Din._ What's this? _Lam._ Wine, Wine, a draught or two. _Din._ What does this Woman here? _Lam._ She shall not hinder you. _Din._ This might have been spar'd, 'Tis but delay and time lost; pray send her softly off. _Lam._ Sit down, and mix your spirits with Wine, I will make you another _Hercules_. _Din._ I dare not drink; Fie, what delays you make! I dare not, I shall be drunk presently, and do strange things then. _Lam._ Not drink a cup with your Mistriss! O the pleasure. _Din._ Lady, why this? [_Musick._ _Lam._ We must have mirth to our Wine, Man. _Din._ Pl---- o' the Musick. _Champ._ God-a-mercy Wench, If thou dost cuckold me I shall forgive thee. _Din._ The house will all rise now, this will disturb all. Did you do this? _Lam._ Peace, and sit quiet, fool, You love me, come, sit down and drink. _Enter_ Cleremont _above_. _Cler._ What a Devil ail you? How cold I sweat! a hogs pox stop your pipes, [_Musick._ The thing will 'wake; now, now, methinks I find His Sword just gliding through my throat. What's that? A vengeance choak your pipes. Are you there, Lady? Stop, stop those Rascals; do you bring me hither To be cut into minced meat? why _Dinant_? _Din._ I cannot do withal; I have spoke, and spoke; I am betray'd and lost too. _Cler._ Do you hear me? do you understand me? 'Plague dam your Whistles. [_Musick ends._ _Lam._ 'Twas but an over-sight, they have done, lye down. _Cler._ Would you had done too, You know not In what a misery and fear I lye. You have a Lady in your arms. _Din._ I would have-- [_The Recorders again._ _Champ._ I'll watch you Goodman Wou'd have. _Cler._ Remove for Heavens sake, And fall to that you come for. _Lam._ Lie you down, 'Tis but an hours endurance now. _Cler._ I dare not, softly sweet Lady ----heart? _Lam._ 'Tis nothing but your fear, he sleeps still soundly, Lie gently down. _Cler._ 'Pray make an end. _Din._ Come, Madam. _Lam._ These Chambers are too near. [_Ex._ Din. Lam. _Cham._ I shall be nearer; Well, go thy wayes, I'le trust thee through the world, Deal how thou wilt: that that I never feel, I'le never fear. Yet by the honour of a Souldier, I hold thee truly noble: How these things will look, And how their blood will curdle! Play on Children, You shall have pap anon. O thou grand Fool, That thou knew'st but thy fortune-- [_Musick done._ _Cler._ Peace, good Madam, Stop her mouth, _Dinant_, it sleeps yet, 'pray be wary, Dispatch, I cannot endure this misery, I can hear nothing more; I'll say my prayers, And down again-- [_Whistle within._ A thousand Alarms fall upon my quarters, Heaven send me off; when I lye keeping Courses. Pl---- o' your fumbling, _Dinant_; how I shake! 'Tis still again: would I were in the _Indies_. [_Exit_ Cler. _Enter_ Dinant, _and_ Lamira: _a light within_. _Din._ Why do you use me thus? thus poorly? basely? Work me into a hope, and then destroy me? Why did you send for me? this new way train me? _Lam._ Mad-man, and fool, and false man, now I'll shew thee. _Din._ 'Pray put your light out. _Lam._ Nay I'll hold it thus, That all chaste Eyes may see thy lust, and scorn it. Tell me but this when you first doted on me, And made suit to enjoy me as your Wife, Did you not hold me honest? _Din._ Yes, most vertuous. _Lam._ And did not that appear the only lustre That made me worth your love and admiration? _Din._ I must confess-- _Lam._ Why would you deal so basely? So like a thief, a Villain? _Din._ Peace, good Madam. _Lam._ I'll speak aloud too; thus maliciously, Thus breaking all the Rules of honesty, Of honour and of truth, for which I lov'd you, For which I call'd you servant, and admir'd you; To steal that Jewel purchas'd by another, Piously set in Wedlock, even that Jewel, Because it had no flaw, you held unvaluable: Can he that has lov'd good, dote on the Devil? For he that seeks a Whore, seeks but his Agent; Or am I of so wild and low a blood? So nurs'd in infamies? _Din._ I do not think so, And I repent. _Lam._ That will not serve your turn, Sir. _Din._ It was your treaty drew me on. _Lam._ But it was your villany Made you pursue it; I drew you but to try How much a man, and nobly thou durst stand, How well you had deserv'd the name of vertuous; But you like a wild torrent, mix'd with all Beastly and base affections came floating on, Swelling your poyson'd billows-- _Din._ Will you betray me? _Lam._ To all the miseries a vext Woman may. _Din._ Let me but out, Give me but room to toss my Sword about me, And I will tell you y'are a treacherous woman, O that I had but words! _Lam._ They will not serve you. _Din._ But two-edg'd words to cut thee; a Lady traytor? Perish by a proud Puppet? I did you too much honour, To tender you my love, too much respected you To think you worthy of my worst embraces. Go take your Groom, and let him dally with you, Your greasie Groom; I scorn to imp your lame stock, You are not fair, nor handsome, I lyed loudly, This tongue abus'd you when it spoke you beauteous. _Lam._ 'Tis very well, 'tis brave. _Din._ Put out your light, Your lascivious eyes are flames enough For Fools to find you out; a Lady Plotter! Must I begin your sacrifice of mischief? I and my friend, the first-fruits of that bloud, You and your honourable Husband aim at? Crooked and wretched you are both. _Lam._ To you, Sir, Yet to the Eye of Justice straight as Truth. _Din._ Is this a womans love? a womans mercy? Do you profess this seriously? do you laugh at me? _Lam._ Ha, ha. _Din._ Pl---- light upon your scorns, upon your flatteries, Upon your tempting faces, all destructions; A bedrid winter hang upon your cheeks, And blast, blast, blast those buds of Pride that paint you; Death in your eyes to fright men from these dangers: Raise up your trophy, _Cleremont_. _Cler._ What a vengeance ail you? _Din._ What dismal noise! is there no honour in you? _Cleremont_, we are betrayed, betrayed, sold by a woman; Deal bravely for thy self. _Cler._ This comes of rutting; Are we made stales to one another? _Din._ Yes, we are undone, lost. _Cler._ You shall pay for't grey-beard. Up, up, you sleep your last else. {_Lights above, two Servants {and_ Anabel. _1 Serv._ No, not yet, Sir, Lady, look up, would you have wrong'd this Beauty? Wake so tender a Virgin with rough terms? You wear a Sword, we must entreat you leave it. _2 Serv._ Fye Sir, so sweet a Lady? _Cler._ Was this my bed-fellow, pray give me leave to look, I am not mad yet, I may be by and by. Did this lye by me? Did I fear this? is this a Cause to shake at? Away with me for shame, I am a Rascal. _Enter_ Champernel, Beaupre, Verdone, Lamira, Anabel, Cleremont, _and two Servants_. _Din._ I am amaz'd too. _Beaup._ We'll recover you. _Verd._ You walk like _Robin-good-fellow_ all the house over, And every man afraid of you. _Din._ 'Tis well, Lady; The honour of this deed will be your own, The world shall know your bounty. _Beaup._ What shall we do with 'em? _Cler._ Geld me, For 'tis not fit I should be a man again, I am an Ass, a Dog. _Lam._ Take your revenges, You know my Husbands wrongs and your own losses. _Anab._ A brave man, an admirable brave man; Well, well, I would not be so tryed again; A very handsome proper Gentleman. _Cler._ Will you let me lye by her but one hour more, And then hang me? _Din._ We wait your malice, put your swords home bravely, You have reason to seek bloud. _Lam._ Not as you are noble. _Cham._ Hands off, and give them liberty, only disarm 'em. _Beaup._ We have done that already. _Cham._ You are welcome, Gentlemen, I am glad my house has any pleasure for you, I keep a couple of Ladies here, they say fair, And you are young and handsome, Gentlemen; Have you any more mind to Wenches? _Cler._ To be abus'd too? Lady, you might have help'd this. _Ana._ Sir now 'tis past, but 't may be I may stand Your friend hereafter, in a greater matter. _Cler._ Never whilst you live. _Ana._ You cannot tell--now, Sir, a parting hand. _Cler._ Down and Roses: Well I may live to see you again. A dull Rogue, No revelation in thee. _Lam._ Were you well frighted? Were your fitts from the heart, of all colds and colours? That's all your punishment. _Cler._ It might have been all yours, Had not a block-head undertaken it. _Cham._ Your swords you must leave to these Gentlemen. _Verd._ And now, when you dare fight, We are on even Ice again. _Din._ 'Tis well: To be a Mistris, is to be a monster, And so I leave your house, and you for ever. _Lam._ Leave your wild lusts, and then you are a master. _Cham._ You may depart too. _Cler._ I had rather stay here. _Cham._ Faith we shall fright you worse. _Cler._ Not in that manner, There's five hundred Crowns, fright me but so again. _Din._ Come _Cleremont_, this is the hour of fool. _Cler._ Wiser the next shall be or we'll to School. [_Exeunt._ _Champ._ How coolly these hot gallants are departed! Faith Cousin, 'twas unconscionably done, To lye so still, and so long. _Anab._ 'Twas your pleasure, If 'twere a fault, I may hereafter mend. _Champ._ O my best Wife, Take now what course thou wilt, and lead what life. _Lam._ The more trust you commit, the more care still, Goodness and vertue shall attend my will. _Cham._ Let's laugh this night out now, and count our gains. We have our honours home, and they their pains. [_Exeunt omnes._ _Actus Quartus. Scena Prima._ _Enter_ Cleremont, Dinant. _Din._ It holds, they will go thither. _Cler._ To their Summer-house? _Din._ Thither i'th' evening, and which is the most infliction, Only to insult upon our miseries. _Cler._ Are you provided? _Din._ Yes, yes. _Cler._ Throughly? _Din._ Throughly. _Cler._ Basta, enough, I have your mind, I will not fail you. _Din._ At such an hour. _Cler._ Have I a memory? A Cause, and Will to do? thou art so sullen-- _Din._ And shall be, till I have a fair reparation. _Cler._ I have more reason, for I scaped a fortune, Which if I come so near again: I say nothing, But if I sweat not in another fashion-- O, a delicate Wench. _Din._ 'Tis certain a most handsome one. _Cler._ And me thought the thing was angry with it self too It lay so long conceal'd, but I must part with you, I have a scene of mirth, to drive this from my heart, And my hour is come. _Din._ Miss not your time. _Cler._ I dare not. [_Exeunt severally._ _Enter_ Sampson, _and a Gentleman_. _Gent._ I presume, Sir, you now need no instruction, But fairly know, what belongs to a Gentleman; You bear your Uncles cause. _Sam._ Do not disturb me, I understand my cause, and the right carriage. _Gent._ Be not too bloody. _Sam._ As I find my enemy; if his sword bite, If it bite, Sir, you must pardon me. _Gent._ No doubt he is valiant, He durst not undertake else, _Sam._ He's most welcome, As he is most valiant, he were no man for me else. _Gent._ But say he should relent. _Sam._ He dies relenting, I cannot help it, he must di[e] relenting, If he pray, praying, _ipso facto_, praying, Your honourable way admits no prayer, And if he fight, he falls, there's his _quietus_. _Gent._ Y'are nobly punctual, let's retire and meet 'em, But still, I say, have mercy. _Samp._ I say, honour. [_Exeunt._ _Enter_ Champernel, Lamira, Anabel, Beaupre, Verdone, Charlote _and a Servant_. _Lam._ Will not you go sweet-heart? _Champ._ Go? I'le fly with thee. I stay behind? _Lam._ My Father will be there too, And all our best friends. _Beau._ And if we be not merry, We have hard luck, Lady. _Verd._ Faith let's have a kind of play. _Cham._ What shall it be? _Verd._ The story of _Dinant_. _Lam._ With the merry conceits of _Cleremont_, His Fits and Feavers. _Ana._ But I'le lie still no more. _Lam._ That, as you make the Play, 'twill be rare sport, And how 'twill vex my gallants, when they hear it! Have you given order for the Coach? _Charl._ Yes, Madam. _Cham._ My easie Nag, and padd. _Serv._ 'Tis making ready. _Champ._ Where are your Horses? _Beau._ Ready at an hour, Sir: we'll not be last. _Cham._ Fie, what a night shall we have! A roaring, merry night. _Lam._ We'll flie at all, Sir. _Cham._ I'le flie at thee too, finely, and so ruffle thee, I'le try your Art upon a Country pallet. _Lam._ Brag not too much, for fear I should expect it, Then if you fail-- _Cham._ Thou saiest too true, we all talk.

kind

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

villain, (But yet no coward) and sollicites me To my dishonour, that's indeed a quarrel, And truly mine, which I will so revenge, As it shall fright such as dare only think To be adulterers. _Cham._ Use thine own waies, I give up all to thee. _Beau._ O women, women! When you are pleas'd you are the least of evils. _Verd._ I'le rime to't, but provokt, the worst of Devils. [_Exeunt._ _Enter Monsieur_ Sampson, _and three Clients_. _Samp._ I know Monsieur _La-writ_. _1 Cly._ Would he knew himself, Sir. _Samp._ He was a pretty Lawyer, a kind of pretty Lawyer, Of a kind of unable thing. _2 Cly._ A fine Lawyer, Sir, And would have firk'd you up a business, And out of this Court into that. _Samp._ Ye are too forward Not so fine my friends, something he could have done, But short short. _1 Cly._ I know your worships favour, You are Nephew to the Judge, Sir. _Samp._ It may be so, And something may be done, without trotting i'th' dirt, friends; It may be I can take him in his Chamber, And have an hours talk, it may be so, And tell him that in's ear; there are such courtesies; I will not say, I can. _3 Cly._ We know you can, Sir. _Sam._ Peradventure I, peradventure no: but where's _La-writ_? Where's your sufficient Lawyer? _1 Cly._ He's blown up, Sir. _2 Cly._ Run mad and quarrels with the Dog he meets; He is no Lawyer of this world now. _Sam._ Your reason? Is he defunct? is he dead? _2 Cly._ No he's not dead yet, Sir; But I would be loth to take a lease on's life for two hours: Alas, he is possest Sir, with the spirit of fighting And quarrels with all people; but how he came to it-- _Samp._ If he fight well and like a Gentleman, The man may fight, for 'tis a lawfull calling. Look you my friends, I am a civil Gentleman, And my Lord my Uncle loves me. _3 Cly._ We all know it, Sir. _Sam._ I think he does, Sir, I have business too, much business, Turn you some forty or fifty Causes in a week; Yet when I get an hour of vacancie, I can fight too my friends, a little does well, I would be loth to learn to fight. _1 Cly._ But and't please you Sir, His fighting has neglected all our business, We are undone, our causes cast away, Sir, His not appearance. _Sam._ There he fought too long, A little and fight well, he fought too long indeed friends; But ne'r the less things must be as they may, And there be wayes-- _1 Cly._ We know, Sir, if you please-- _Sam._ Something I'le do: goe rally up your Causes. _Enter_ La-writ, _and a_ Gentleman, _at the door_. _2 Cly._ Now you may behold Sir, And be a witness, whether we lie or no. _La-writ._ I'le meet you at the Ordinary, sweet Gentlemen, And if there be a wench or two-- _Gen._ We'll have 'em. _La-writ._ No handling any Duells before I come, We'll have no going else, I hate a coward. _Gent._ There shall be nothing done. _La-writ._ Make all the quarrels You can devise before I come, and let's all fight, There is no sport else. _Gent._ We'll see what may be done, Sir. _1 Cly._ Ha? Monsieur _La-writ_. _La-writ._ Baffled in way of business, My causes cast away, Judgement against us? Why there it goes. _2 Cly._ What shall we do the whilst Sir? _La-wr._ Breed new dissentions, goe hang your selves 'Tis all one to me; I have a new trade of living. _1 Cli._ Do you hear what he saies Sir? _Sam._ The Gentleman speaks finely. _La-wr._ Will any of you fight? Fighting's my occupation If you find your selves aggriev'd. _Sam._ A compleat Gentleman. _La-writ._ Avant thou buckram budget of petitions, Thou spittle of lame causes; I lament for thee, And till revenge be taken-- _Sam._ 'Tis most excellent. _La-wr._ There, every man chuse his paper, and his place. I'le answer ye all, I will neglect no mans business But he shall have satisfaction like a Gentleman, The Judge may do and not do, he's but a Monsieur. _Sam._ You have nothing of mine in your bag, Sir. _La-writ._ I know not Sir, But you may put any thing in, any fighting thing. _Sam._ It is sufficient, you may hear hereafter. _La-writ._ I rest your servant Sir. _Sam._ No more words Gentlemen But follow me, no more words as you love me, The Gentleman's a noble Gentleman. I shall do what I can, and then-- _Cli._ We thank you Sir. [_Ex._ Sam. _and_ Clients. _Sam._ Not a word to disturb him, he's a Gentleman. _La-writ._ No cause go o' my side? the judge cast all? And because I was honourably employed in action, And not appear'd, pronounce? 'tis very well, 'Tis well faith, 'tis well, Judge. _Enter_ Cleremont. _Cler._ Who have we here? My little furious Lawyer? _La-writ._ I say 'tis well, But mark the end. _Cler._ How he is metamorphos'd! Nothing of Lawyer left, not a bit of buckram, No solliciting face now, This is no simple conversion. Your servant Sir, and Friend. _La-writ._ You come in time, Sir, _Cler._ The happier man, to be at your command then. _La-writ._ You may wonder to see me thus; but that's all one, Time shall declare; 'tis true I was a Lawyer, But I have mew'd that coat, I hate a Lawyer, I talk'd much in the Court, now I hate talking, I did you the office of a man. _Cler._ I must confess it. _La-w._ And budg'd not, no I budg'd not. _Cler._ No, you did not. _La-w._ There's it then, one good turn requires another. _Cler._ Most willing Sir, I am ready at your service. _La-w._ There, read, and understand, and then deliver it. _Cler._ This is a Challenge, Sir, _La-w._ 'Tis very like, Sir, I seldom now write Sonnets. _Cler._ _O admirantis_, To Monsieur _Vertaign_, the President. _La-w._ I chuse no Fool, Sir. _Cler._ Why, he's no Sword-man, Sir. _La-w._ Let him learn, let him learn, Time, that trains Chickens up, will teach him quickly. _Cler._ Why, he's a Judge, an Old Man. _La-w._ Never too Old To be a Gentleman; and he that is a Judge Can judge best what belongs to wounded honour. There are my griefs, he has cast away my causes, In which he has bowed my reputation. And therefore Judge, or no Judge. _Cler._ 'Pray be rul'd Sir, This is the maddest thing-- _La-w._ You will not carry it. _Cler._ I do not tell you so, but if you may be perswaded. _La-w._ You know how you us'd me when I would not fight, Do you remember, Gentleman? _Cler._ The Devil's in him. _La-w._ I see it in your Eyes, that you dare do it, You have a carrying face, and you shall carry it. _Cler._ The least is Banishment. _La-w._ Be banish'd then; 'Tis a friends part, we'll meet in _Africa_, Or any part of the Earth. _Cler._ Say he will not fight. _La-w._ I know then what to say, take you no care, Sir, _Cler._ Well, I will carry it, and deliver it, And to morrow morning meet you in the Louver, Till when, my service. _La-w._ A Judge, or no Judge, no Judge. [_Exit_ La-writ. _Cler._ This is the prettiest Rogue that e'r I read of, None to provoke to th' field, but the old President; What face shall I put on? if I come in earnest, I am sure to wear a pair of Bracelets; This may make some sport yet, I will deliver it, Here comes the President. _Enter_ Vertaign, _with two Gentlemen_. _Vert._ I shall find time, Gentlemen, To do your causes good, is not that _Cleremont_? _1 Gent._ 'Tis he my Lord. _Vert._ Why does he smile upon me? Am I become ridiculous? has your fortune, Sir, Upon my Son, made you contemn his Father? The glory of a Gentleman is fair bearing. _Cler._ Mistake me not my Lord, you shall not find that, I come with no blown Spirit to abuse you, I know your place and honour due unto it, The reverence to your silver Age and Vertue. _Vert._ Your face is merry still. _Cler._ So is my business, And I beseech your honour mistake me not, I have brought you from a wild or rather Mad-man As mad a piece of--you were wont to love mirth In your young days, I have known your Honour woo it, This may be made no little one, 'tis a Challenge, Sir, Nay, start not, I beseech you, it means you no harm, Nor any Man of Honour, or Understanding, 'Tis to steal from your serious hours a little laughter; I am bold to bring it to your Lordship. _Vert._ 'Tis to me indeed: Do they take me for a Sword-man at these years? _Cler._ 'Tis only worth your Honours Mirth, that's all Sir, 'Thad been in me else a sawcy rudeness. _Vert._ From one _La-writ_, a very punctual Challenge. _Cler._ But if your Lordship mark it, no great matter. _Vert._ I have known such a wrangling Advocate, Such a little figent thing; Oh I remember him, A notable talking Knave, now out upon him, Has challeng'd me downright, defied me mortally I do remember too, I cast his Causes. _Cler._ Why, there's the quarrel, Sir, the mortal quarrel. _Vert._ Why, what a Knave is this? as y'are a Gentleman, Is there no further purpose but meer mirth? What a bold Man of War! he invites me roundly. _Cler._ If there should be, I were no Gentleman, Nor worthy of the honour of my Kindred. And though I am sure your Lordship hates my Person, Which Time may bring again into your favour, Yet for the manners-- _Vert._ I am satisfied, You see, Sir, I have out-liv'd those days of fighting, And therefore cannot do him the honour to beat him my self; But I have a Kinsman much of his ability, His Wit and Courage, for this call him Fool, One that will spit as senseless fire as this Fellow. _Cler._ And such a man to undertake, my Lord? _Vert._ Nay he's too forward; these two pitch Barrels together. _Cler._ Upon my soul, no harm. _Vert._ It makes me smile, Why, what a stinking smother will they utter! Yes, he shall undertake, Sir, as my Champion, Since you propound it mirth, I'll venture on it, And shall defend my cause, but as y'are honest Sport not with bloud. _Cler._ Think not so basely, good Sir. _Vert._ A Squire shall wait upon you from my Kinsman, To morrow morning make you sport at full, You want no Subject; but no wounds. _Cler._ That's my care. _Ver._ And so good day. [_Ex._ Vertaign, _and Gentlemen_. _Cler._ Many unto your honour. This is a noble Fellow, of a sweet Spirit, Now must I think how to contrive this matter, For together they shall go. _Enter_ Dinant. _Din._ O _Cleremont_, I am glad I have found thee. _Cler._ I can tell thee rare things. _Din._ O, I can tell thee rarer, Dost thou love me? _Cler._ Love thee? _Din._ Dost thou love me dearly? Dar'st thou for my sake? _Cler._ Any thing that's honest. _Din._ Though it be dangerous? _Cler._ Pox o' dangerous. _Din._ Nay wondrous dangerous. _Cler._ Wilt thou break my heart? _Din._ Along with me then. _Cler._ I must part to morrow. _Din._ You shall, you shall, be faithful for this night, And thou hast made thy friend. _Cler._ Away, and talk not. [_Exeunt._ _Enter_ Lamira, _and Nurse_. _Lam._ O Nurse, welcome, where's _Dinant_? _Nurse._ He's at my back. 'Tis the most liberal Gentleman, this Gold He gave me for my pains, nor can I blame you, If you yield up the fort. _Lam._ How? yield it up? _Nurse._ I know not, he that loves, and gives so largely, And a young Lord to boot, or I am cozen'd, May enter every where. _Lam._ Thou'lt make me angry. _Enter_ Dinant, _and_ Cleremont. _Nur._ Why, if you are, I hope here's one will please you, Look on him with my Eyes, good luck go with you: Were I young for your sake-- _Din._ I thank thee, Nurse. _Nur._ I would be tractable, and as I am-- _Lam._ Leave the room, So old, and so immodest! and be careful, Since whispers will 'wake sleeping jealousies, That none disturb my Lord. [_Exit Nurse._ _Cler._ Will you dispatch? Till you come to the matter be not rapt thus, Walk in, walk in, I am your scout for once, You owe me the like service. _Din._ And will pay it. _Lam._ As you respect our lives, speak not so loud. _Cler._ Why, do it in dumb shew then, I am silenc'd. _Lam._ Be not so hasty, Sir, the golden Apples Had a fell Dragon for their Guard, your pleasures Are to be attempted with _Herculean_ danger, Or never to be gotten. _Din._ Speak the means. _Lam._ Thus briefly, my Lord sleeps now, and alas, Each Night, he only sleeps. _Cler._ Go, keep her stirring. _Lam._ Now if he 'wake, as sometimes he does, He only stretches out his hand and feels, Whether I am a bed, which being assur'd of, He sleeps again; but should he miss me, Valour Could not defend our lives. _Din._ What's to be done then? _Lam._ Servants have servile faiths, nor have I any That I dare trust; on noble _Cleremont_ We safely may rely. _Cler._ What man can do, Command and boldly. _Lam._ Thus then in my place, You must lye with my Lord. _Cler._ With an old man? Two Beards together, that's preposterous. _Lam._ There is no other way, and though 'tis dangerous, He having servants within call, and arm'd too, Slaves fed to act all that his jealousie And rage commands them, yet a true friend should not Check at the hazard of a life. _Cler._ I thank you, I love my friend, but know no reason why To hate my self; to be a kind of pander, You see I am willing, But to betray mine own throat you must pardon. _Din._ Then I am lost, and all my hopes defeated, Were I to hazard ten times more for you, You should find, _Cleremont_-- _Cler._ You shall not outdo me, Fall what may fall, I'll do't. _Din._ But for his Beard-- _Lam._ To cover that you shall have my night Linnen, And you dispos'd of, my _Dinant_ and I Will have some private conference. _Enter_ Champernel, _privately_. _Cler._ Private doing, Or I'll not venture. _Lam._ That's as we agree. [_Exeunt._ _Enter Nurse, and_ Charlotte, _pass over the Stage with Pillows, Night cloaths, and such things_. _Cham._ What can this Woman do, preserving her honour? I have given her all the liberty that may be, I will not be far off though, nor I will not be jealous, Nor trust too much, I think she is vertuous, Yet when I hold her best, she's but a Woman, As full of frailty as of faith, a poor sleight Woman, And her best thoughts, but weak fortifications, There may be a Mine wrought: Well, let 'em work then, I shall meet with it, till the signs be monstrous, And stick upon my head, I will not believe it, [_Stands private._ She may be, and she may not, now to my observation. _Enter_ Dinant, _and_ Lamira. _Din._ Why do you make me stay so? if you love me-- _Lam._ You are too hot and violent. _Din._ Why do you shift thus From one Chamber to another? _Lam._ A little delay, Sir, Like fire, a little sprinkled o'r with water Makes the desires burn clear, and ten times hotter. _Din._ Why do you speak so loud? I pray'e go in, Sweet Mistriss, I am mad, time steals away, And when we would enjoy-- _Lam._ Now fie, fie, Servant, Like sensual Beasts shall we enjoy our pleasures? _Din._ 'Pray do not kiss me then. _Lam._ Why, that I will, and you shall find anon, servant. _Din._ Softly, for heavens sake, you know my friend's engag'd, A little now, now; will ye go in again? _Lam._ Ha, ha, ha, ha. _Din._ Why do you laugh so loud, Precious? Will you betray me; ha' my friends throat cut? _Lam._ Come, come, I'll kiss thee again. _Cham._ Will you so? you are liberal, If you do cozen me-- _Enter Nurse with Wine._ _Din._ What's this? _Lam._ Wine, Wine, a draught or two. _Din._ What does this Woman here? _Lam._ She shall not hinder you. _Din._ This might have been spar'd, 'Tis but delay and time lost; pray send her softly off. _Lam._ Sit down, and mix your spirits with Wine, I will make you another _Hercules_. _Din._ I dare not drink; Fie, what delays you make! I dare not, I shall be drunk presently, and do strange things then. _Lam._ Not drink a cup with your Mistriss! O the pleasure. _Din._ Lady, why this? [_Musick._ _Lam._ We must have mirth to our Wine, Man. _Din._ Pl---- o' the Musick. _Champ._ God-a-mercy Wench, If thou dost cuckold me I shall forgive thee. _Din._ The house will all rise now, this will disturb all. Did you do this? _Lam._ Peace, and sit quiet, fool, You love me, come, sit down and drink. _Enter_ Cleremont _above_. _Cler._ What a Devil ail you? How cold I sweat! a hogs pox stop your pipes, [_Musick._ The thing will 'wake; now, now, methinks I find His Sword just gliding through my throat. What's that? A vengeance choak your pipes. Are you there, Lady? Stop, stop those Rascals; do you bring me hither To be cut into minced meat? why _Dinant_? _Din._ I cannot do withal; I have spoke, and spoke; I am betray'd and lost too. _Cler._ Do you hear me? do you understand me? 'Plague dam your Whistles. [_Musick ends._ _Lam._ 'Twas but an over-sight, they have done, lye down. _Cler._ Would you had done too, You know not In what a misery and fear I lye. You have a Lady in your arms. _Din._ I would have-- [_The Recorders again._ _Champ._ I'll watch you Goodman Wou'd have. _Cler._ Remove for Heavens sake, And fall to that you come for. _Lam._ Lie you down, 'Tis but an hours endurance now. _Cler._ I dare not, softly sweet Lady ----heart? _Lam._ 'Tis nothing but your fear, he sleeps still soundly, Lie gently down. _Cler._ 'Pray make an end. _Din._ Come, Madam. _Lam._ These Chambers are too near. [_Ex._ Din. Lam. _Cham._ I shall be nearer; Well, go thy wayes, I'le trust thee through the world, Deal how thou wilt: that that I never feel, I'le never fear. Yet by the honour of a Souldier, I hold thee truly noble: How these things will look, And how their blood will curdle! Play on Children, You shall have pap anon. O thou grand Fool, That thou knew'st but thy fortune-- [_Musick done._ _Cler._ Peace, good Madam, Stop her mouth, _Dinant_, it sleeps yet, 'pray be wary, Dispatch, I cannot endure this misery, I can hear nothing more; I'll say my prayers, And down again-- [_Whistle within._ A thousand Alarms fall upon my quarters, Heaven send me off; when I lye keeping Courses. Pl---- o' your fumbling, _Dinant_; how I shake! 'Tis still again: would I were in the _Indies_. [_Exit_ Cler. _Enter_ Dinant, _and_ Lamira: _a light within_. _Din._ Why do you use me thus? thus poorly? basely? Work me into a hope, and then destroy me? Why did you send for me? this new way train me? _Lam._ Mad-man, and fool, and false man, now I'll shew thee. _Din._ 'Pray put your light out. _Lam._ Nay I'll hold it thus, That all chaste Eyes may see thy lust, and scorn it. Tell me but this when you first doted on me, And made suit to enjoy me as your Wife, Did you not hold me honest? _Din._ Yes, most vertuous. _Lam._ And did not that appear the only lustre That made me worth your love and admiration? _Din._ I must confess-- _Lam._ Why would you deal so basely? So like a thief, a Villain? _Din._ Peace, good Madam. _Lam._ I'll speak aloud too; thus maliciously, Thus breaking all the Rules of honesty, Of honour and of truth, for which I lov'd you, For which I call'd you servant, and admir'd you; To steal that Jewel purchas'd by another, Piously set in Wedlock, even that Jewel, Because it had no flaw, you held unvaluable: Can he that has lov'd good, dote on the Devil? For he that seeks a Whore, seeks but his Agent; Or am I of so wild and low a blood? So nurs'd in infamies? _Din._ I do not think so, And I repent. _Lam._ That will not serve your turn, Sir. _Din._ It was your treaty drew me on. _Lam._ But it was your villany Made you pursue it; I drew you but to try How much a man, and nobly thou durst stand, How well you had deserv'd the name of vertuous; But you like a wild torrent, mix'd with all Beastly and base affections came floating on, Swelling your poyson'd billows-- _Din._ Will you betray me? _Lam._ To all the miseries a vext Woman may. _Din._ Let me but out, Give me but room to toss my Sword about me, And I will tell you y'are a treacherous woman, O that I had but words! _Lam._ They will not serve you. _Din._ But two-edg'd words to cut thee; a Lady traytor? Perish by a proud Puppet? I did you too much honour, To tender you my love, too much respected you To think you worthy of my worst embraces. Go take your Groom, and let him dally with you, Your greasie Groom; I scorn to imp your lame stock, You are not fair, nor handsome, I lyed loudly, This tongue abus'd you when it spoke you beauteous. _Lam._ 'Tis very well, 'tis brave. _Din._ Put out your light, Your lascivious eyes are flames enough For Fools to find you out; a Lady Plotter! Must I begin your sacrifice of mischief? I and my friend, the first-fruits of that bloud, You and your honourable Husband aim at? Crooked and wretched you are both. _Lam._ To you, Sir, Yet to the Eye of Justice straight as Truth. _Din._ Is this a womans love? a womans mercy? Do you profess this seriously? do you laugh at me? _Lam._ Ha, ha. _Din._ Pl---- light upon your scorns, upon your flatteries, Upon your tempting faces, all destructions; A bedrid winter hang upon your cheeks, And blast, blast, blast those buds of Pride that paint you; Death in your eyes to fright men from these dangers: Raise up your trophy, _Cleremont_. _Cler._ What a vengeance ail you? _Din._ What dismal noise! is there no honour in you? _Cleremont_, we are betrayed, betrayed, sold by a woman; Deal bravely for thy self. _Cler._ This comes of rutting; Are we made stales to one another? _Din._ Yes, we are undone, lost. _Cler._ You shall pay for't grey-beard. Up, up, you sleep your last else. {_Lights above, two Servants {and_ Anabel. _1 Serv._ No, not yet, Sir, Lady, look up, would you have wrong'd this Beauty? Wake so tender a Virgin with rough terms? You wear a Sword, we must entreat you leave it. _2 Serv._ Fye Sir, so sweet a Lady? _Cler._ Was this my bed-fellow, pray give me leave to look, I am not mad yet, I may be by and by. Did this lye by me? Did I fear this? is this a Cause to shake at? Away with me for shame, I am a Rascal. _Enter_ Champernel, Beaupre, Verdone, Lamira, Anabel, Cleremont, _and two Servants_. _Din._ I am amaz'd too. _Beaup._ We'll recover you. _Verd._ You walk like _Robin-good-fellow_ all the house over, And every man afraid of you. _Din._ 'Tis well, Lady; The honour of this deed will be your own, The world shall know your bounty. _Beaup._ What shall we do with 'em? _Cler._ Geld me, For 'tis not fit I should be a man again, I am an Ass, a Dog. _Lam._ Take your revenges, You know my Husbands wrongs and your own losses. _Anab._ A brave man, an admirable brave man; Well, well, I would not be so tryed again; A very handsome proper Gentleman. _Cler._ Will you let me lye by her but one hour more, And then hang me? _Din._ We wait your malice, put your swords home bravely, You have reason to seek bloud. _Lam._ Not as you are noble. _Cham._ Hands off, and give them liberty, only disarm 'em. _Beaup._ We have done that already. _Cham._ You are welcome, Gentlemen, I am glad my house has any pleasure for you, I keep a couple of Ladies here, they say fair, And you are young and handsome, Gentlemen; Have you any more mind to Wenches? _Cler._ To be abus'd too? Lady, you might have help'd this. _Ana._ Sir now 'tis past, but 't may be I may stand Your friend hereafter, in a greater matter. _Cler._ Never whilst you live. _Ana._ You cannot tell--now, Sir, a parting hand. _Cler._ Down and Roses: Well I may live to see you again. A dull Rogue, No revelation in thee. _Lam._ Were you well frighted? Were your fitts from the heart, of all colds and colours? That's all your punishment. _Cler._ It might have been all yours, Had not a block-head undertaken it. _Cham._ Your swords you must leave to these Gentlemen. _Verd._ And now, when you dare fight, We are on even Ice again. _Din._ 'Tis well: To be a Mistris, is to be a monster, And so I leave your house, and you for ever. _Lam._ Leave your wild lusts, and then you are a master. _Cham._ You may depart too. _Cler._ I had rather stay here. _Cham._ Faith we shall fright you worse. _Cler._ Not in that manner, There's five hundred Crowns, fright me but so again. _Din._ Come _Cleremont_, this is the hour of fool. _Cler._ Wiser the next shall be or we'll to School. [_Exeunt._ _Champ._ How coolly these hot gallants are departed! Faith Cousin, 'twas unconscionably done, To lye so still, and so long. _Anab._ 'Twas your pleasure, If 'twere a fault, I may hereafter mend. _Champ._ O my best Wife, Take now what course thou wilt, and lead what life. _Lam._ The more trust you commit, the more care still, Goodness and vertue shall attend my will. _Cham._ Let's laugh this night out now, and count our gains. We have our honours home, and they their pains. [_Exeunt omnes._ _Actus Quartus. Scena Prima._ _Enter_ Cleremont, Dinant. _Din._ It holds, they will go thither. _Cler._ To their Summer-house? _Din._ Thither i'th' evening, and which is the most infliction, Only to insult upon our miseries. _Cler._ Are you provided? _Din._ Yes, yes. _Cler._ Throughly? _Din._ Throughly. _Cler._ Basta, enough, I have your mind, I will not fail you. _Din._ At such an hour. _Cler._ Have I a memory? A Cause, and Will to do? thou art so sullen-- _Din._ And shall be, till I have a fair reparation. _Cler._ I have more reason, for I scaped a fortune, Which if I come so near again: I say nothing, But if I sweat not in another fashion-- O, a delicate Wench. _Din._ 'Tis certain a most handsome one. _Cler._ And me thought the thing was angry with it self too It lay so long conceal'd, but I must part with you, I have a scene of mirth, to drive this from my heart, And my hour is come. _Din._ Miss not your time. _Cler._ I dare not. [_Exeunt severally._ _Enter_ Sampson, _and a Gentleman_. _Gent._ I presume, Sir, you now need no instruction, But fairly know, what belongs to a Gentleman; You bear your Uncles cause. _Sam._ Do not disturb me, I understand my cause, and the right carriage. _Gent._ Be not too bloody. _Sam._ As I find my enemy; if his sword bite, If it bite, Sir, you must pardon me. _Gent._ No doubt he is valiant, He durst not undertake else, _Sam._ He's most welcome, As he is most valiant, he were no man for me else. _Gent._ But say he should relent. _Sam._ He dies relenting, I cannot help it, he must di[e] relenting, If he pray, praying, _ipso facto_, praying, Your honourable way admits no prayer, And if he fight, he falls, there's his _quietus_. _Gent._ Y'are nobly punctual, let's retire and meet 'em, But still, I say, have mercy. _Samp._ I say, honour. [_Exeunt._ _Enter_ Champernel, Lamira, Anabel, Beaupre, Verdone, Charlote _and a Servant_. _Lam._ Will not you go sweet-heart? _Champ._ Go? I'le fly with thee. I stay behind? _Lam._ My Father will be there too, And all our best friends. _Beau._ And if we be not merry, We have hard luck, Lady. _Verd._ Faith let's have a kind of play. _Cham._ What shall it be? _Verd._ The story of _Dinant_. _Lam._ With the merry conceits of _Cleremont_, His Fits and Feavers. _Ana._ But I'le lie still no more. _Lam._ That, as you make the Play, 'twill be rare sport, And how 'twill vex my gallants, when they hear it! Have you given order for the Coach? _Charl._ Yes, Madam. _Cham._ My easie Nag, and padd. _Serv._ 'Tis making ready. _Champ._ Where are your Horses? _Beau._ Ready at an hour, Sir: we'll not be last. _Cham._ Fie, what a night shall we have! A roaring, merry night. _Lam._ We'll flie at all, Sir. _Cham._ I'le flie at thee too, finely, and so ruffle thee, I'le try your Art upon a Country pallet. _Lam._ Brag not too much, for fear I should expect it, Then if you fail-- _Cham._ Thou saiest too true, we all talk.

noble

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

villain, (But yet no coward) and sollicites me To my dishonour, that's indeed a quarrel, And truly mine, which I will so revenge, As it shall fright such as dare only think To be adulterers. _Cham._ Use thine own waies, I give up all to thee. _Beau._ O women, women! When you are pleas'd you are the least of evils. _Verd._ I'le rime to't, but provokt, the worst of Devils. [_Exeunt._ _Enter Monsieur_ Sampson, _and three Clients_. _Samp._ I know Monsieur _La-writ_. _1 Cly._ Would he knew himself, Sir. _Samp._ He was a pretty Lawyer, a kind of pretty Lawyer, Of a kind of unable thing. _2 Cly._ A fine Lawyer, Sir, And would have firk'd you up a business, And out of this Court into that. _Samp._ Ye are too forward Not so fine my friends, something he could have done, But short short. _1 Cly._ I know your worships favour, You are Nephew to the Judge, Sir. _Samp._ It may be so, And something may be done, without trotting i'th' dirt, friends; It may be I can take him in his Chamber, And have an hours talk, it may be so, And tell him that in's ear; there are such courtesies; I will not say, I can. _3 Cly._ We know you can, Sir. _Sam._ Peradventure I, peradventure no: but where's _La-writ_? Where's your sufficient Lawyer? _1 Cly._ He's blown up, Sir. _2 Cly._ Run mad and quarrels with the Dog he meets; He is no Lawyer of this world now. _Sam._ Your reason? Is he defunct? is he dead? _2 Cly._ No he's not dead yet, Sir; But I would be loth to take a lease on's life for two hours: Alas, he is possest Sir, with the spirit of fighting And quarrels with all people; but how he came to it-- _Samp._ If he fight well and like a Gentleman, The man may fight, for 'tis a lawfull calling. Look you my friends, I am a civil Gentleman, And my Lord my Uncle loves me. _3 Cly._ We all know it, Sir. _Sam._ I think he does, Sir, I have business too, much business, Turn you some forty or fifty Causes in a week; Yet when I get an hour of vacancie, I can fight too my friends, a little does well, I would be loth to learn to fight. _1 Cly._ But and't please you Sir, His fighting has neglected all our business, We are undone, our causes cast away, Sir, His not appearance. _Sam._ There he fought too long, A little and fight well, he fought too long indeed friends; But ne'r the less things must be as they may, And there be wayes-- _1 Cly._ We know, Sir, if you please-- _Sam._ Something I'le do: goe rally up your Causes. _Enter_ La-writ, _and a_ Gentleman, _at the door_. _2 Cly._ Now you may behold Sir, And be a witness, whether we lie or no. _La-writ._ I'le meet you at the Ordinary, sweet Gentlemen, And if there be a wench or two-- _Gen._ We'll have 'em. _La-writ._ No handling any Duells before I come, We'll have no going else, I hate a coward. _Gent._ There shall be nothing done. _La-writ._ Make all the quarrels You can devise before I come, and let's all fight, There is no sport else. _Gent._ We'll see what may be done, Sir. _1 Cly._ Ha? Monsieur _La-writ_. _La-writ._ Baffled in way of business, My causes cast away, Judgement against us? Why there it goes. _2 Cly._ What shall we do the whilst Sir? _La-wr._ Breed new dissentions, goe hang your selves 'Tis all one to me; I have a new trade of living. _1 Cli._ Do you hear what he saies Sir? _Sam._ The Gentleman speaks finely. _La-wr._ Will any of you fight? Fighting's my occupation If you find your selves aggriev'd. _Sam._ A compleat Gentleman. _La-writ._ Avant thou buckram budget of petitions, Thou spittle of lame causes; I lament for thee, And till revenge be taken-- _Sam._ 'Tis most excellent. _La-wr._ There, every man chuse his paper, and his place. I'le answer ye all, I will neglect no mans business But he shall have satisfaction like a Gentleman, The Judge may do and not do, he's but a Monsieur. _Sam._ You have nothing of mine in your bag, Sir. _La-writ._ I know not Sir, But you may put any thing in, any fighting thing. _Sam._ It is sufficient, you may hear hereafter. _La-writ._ I rest your servant Sir. _Sam._ No more words Gentlemen But follow me, no more words as you love me, The Gentleman's a noble Gentleman. I shall do what I can, and then-- _Cli._ We thank you Sir. [_Ex._ Sam. _and_ Clients. _Sam._ Not a word to disturb him, he's a Gentleman. _La-writ._ No cause go o' my side? the judge cast all? And because I was honourably employed in action, And not appear'd, pronounce? 'tis very well, 'Tis well faith, 'tis well, Judge. _Enter_ Cleremont. _Cler._ Who have we here? My little furious Lawyer? _La-writ._ I say 'tis well, But mark the end. _Cler._ How he is metamorphos'd! Nothing of Lawyer left, not a bit of buckram, No solliciting face now, This is no simple conversion. Your servant Sir, and Friend. _La-writ._ You come in time, Sir, _Cler._ The happier man, to be at your command then. _La-writ._ You may wonder to see me thus; but that's all one, Time shall declare; 'tis true I was a Lawyer, But I have mew'd that coat, I hate a Lawyer, I talk'd much in the Court, now I hate talking, I did you the office of a man. _Cler._ I must confess it. _La-w._ And budg'd not, no I budg'd not. _Cler._ No, you did not. _La-w._ There's it then, one good turn requires another. _Cler._ Most willing Sir, I am ready at your service. _La-w._ There, read, and understand, and then deliver it. _Cler._ This is a Challenge, Sir, _La-w._ 'Tis very like, Sir, I seldom now write Sonnets. _Cler._ _O admirantis_, To Monsieur _Vertaign_, the President. _La-w._ I chuse no Fool, Sir. _Cler._ Why, he's no Sword-man, Sir. _La-w._ Let him learn, let him learn, Time, that trains Chickens up, will teach him quickly. _Cler._ Why, he's a Judge, an Old Man. _La-w._ Never too Old To be a Gentleman; and he that is a Judge Can judge best what belongs to wounded honour. There are my griefs, he has cast away my causes, In which he has bowed my reputation. And therefore Judge, or no Judge. _Cler._ 'Pray be rul'd Sir, This is the maddest thing-- _La-w._ You will not carry it. _Cler._ I do not tell you so, but if you may be perswaded. _La-w._ You know how you us'd me when I would not fight, Do you remember, Gentleman? _Cler._ The Devil's in him. _La-w._ I see it in your Eyes, that you dare do it, You have a carrying face, and you shall carry it. _Cler._ The least is Banishment. _La-w._ Be banish'd then; 'Tis a friends part, we'll meet in _Africa_, Or any part of the Earth. _Cler._ Say he will not fight. _La-w._ I know then what to say, take you no care, Sir, _Cler._ Well, I will carry it, and deliver it, And to morrow morning meet you in the Louver, Till when, my service. _La-w._ A Judge, or no Judge, no Judge. [_Exit_ La-writ. _Cler._ This is the prettiest Rogue that e'r I read of, None to provoke to th' field, but the old President; What face shall I put on? if I come in earnest, I am sure to wear a pair of Bracelets; This may make some sport yet, I will deliver it, Here comes the President. _Enter_ Vertaign, _with two Gentlemen_. _Vert._ I shall find time, Gentlemen, To do your causes good, is not that _Cleremont_? _1 Gent._ 'Tis he my Lord. _Vert._ Why does he smile upon me? Am I become ridiculous? has your fortune, Sir, Upon my Son, made you contemn his Father? The glory of a Gentleman is fair bearing. _Cler._ Mistake me not my Lord, you shall not find that, I come with no blown Spirit to abuse you, I know your place and honour due unto it, The reverence to your silver Age and Vertue. _Vert._ Your face is merry still. _Cler._ So is my business, And I beseech your honour mistake me not, I have brought you from a wild or rather Mad-man As mad a piece of--you were wont to love mirth In your young days, I have known your Honour woo it, This may be made no little one, 'tis a Challenge, Sir, Nay, start not, I beseech you, it means you no harm, Nor any Man of Honour, or Understanding, 'Tis to steal from your serious hours a little laughter; I am bold to bring it to your Lordship. _Vert._ 'Tis to me indeed: Do they take me for a Sword-man at these years? _Cler._ 'Tis only worth your Honours Mirth, that's all Sir, 'Thad been in me else a sawcy rudeness. _Vert._ From one _La-writ_, a very punctual Challenge. _Cler._ But if your Lordship mark it, no great matter. _Vert._ I have known such a wrangling Advocate, Such a little figent thing; Oh I remember him, A notable talking Knave, now out upon him, Has challeng'd me downright, defied me mortally I do remember too, I cast his Causes. _Cler._ Why, there's the quarrel, Sir, the mortal quarrel. _Vert._ Why, what a Knave is this? as y'are a Gentleman, Is there no further purpose but meer mirth? What a bold Man of War! he invites me roundly. _Cler._ If there should be, I were no Gentleman, Nor worthy of the honour of my Kindred. And though I am sure your Lordship hates my Person, Which Time may bring again into your favour, Yet for the manners-- _Vert._ I am satisfied, You see, Sir, I have out-liv'd those days of fighting, And therefore cannot do him the honour to beat him my self; But I have a Kinsman much of his ability, His Wit and Courage, for this call him Fool, One that will spit as senseless fire as this Fellow. _Cler._ And such a man to undertake, my Lord? _Vert._ Nay he's too forward; these two pitch Barrels together. _Cler._ Upon my soul, no harm. _Vert._ It makes me smile, Why, what a stinking smother will they utter! Yes, he shall undertake, Sir, as my Champion, Since you propound it mirth, I'll venture on it, And shall defend my cause, but as y'are honest Sport not with bloud. _Cler._ Think not so basely, good Sir. _Vert._ A Squire shall wait upon you from my Kinsman, To morrow morning make you sport at full, You want no Subject; but no wounds. _Cler._ That's my care. _Ver._ And so good day. [_Ex._ Vertaign, _and Gentlemen_. _Cler._ Many unto your honour. This is a noble Fellow, of a sweet Spirit, Now must I think how to contrive this matter, For together they shall go. _Enter_ Dinant. _Din._ O _Cleremont_, I am glad I have found thee. _Cler._ I can tell thee rare things. _Din._ O, I can tell thee rarer, Dost thou love me? _Cler._ Love thee? _Din._ Dost thou love me dearly? Dar'st thou for my sake? _Cler._ Any thing that's honest. _Din._ Though it be dangerous? _Cler._ Pox o' dangerous. _Din._ Nay wondrous dangerous. _Cler._ Wilt thou break my heart? _Din._ Along with me then. _Cler._ I must part to morrow. _Din._ You shall, you shall, be faithful for this night, And thou hast made thy friend. _Cler._ Away, and talk not. [_Exeunt._ _Enter_ Lamira, _and Nurse_. _Lam._ O Nurse, welcome, where's _Dinant_? _Nurse._ He's at my back. 'Tis the most liberal Gentleman, this Gold He gave me for my pains, nor can I blame you, If you yield up the fort. _Lam._ How? yield it up? _Nurse._ I know not, he that loves, and gives so largely, And a young Lord to boot, or I am cozen'd, May enter every where. _Lam._ Thou'lt make me angry. _Enter_ Dinant, _and_ Cleremont. _Nur._ Why, if you are, I hope here's one will please you, Look on him with my Eyes, good luck go with you: Were I young for your sake-- _Din._ I thank thee, Nurse. _Nur._ I would be tractable, and as I am-- _Lam._ Leave the room, So old, and so immodest! and be careful, Since whispers will 'wake sleeping jealousies, That none disturb my Lord. [_Exit Nurse._ _Cler._ Will you dispatch? Till you come to the matter be not rapt thus, Walk in, walk in, I am your scout for once, You owe me the like service. _Din._ And will pay it. _Lam._ As you respect our lives, speak not so loud. _Cler._ Why, do it in dumb shew then, I am silenc'd. _Lam._ Be not so hasty, Sir, the golden Apples Had a fell Dragon for their Guard, your pleasures Are to be attempted with _Herculean_ danger, Or never to be gotten. _Din._ Speak the means. _Lam._ Thus briefly, my Lord sleeps now, and alas, Each Night, he only sleeps. _Cler._ Go, keep her stirring. _Lam._ Now if he 'wake, as sometimes he does, He only stretches out his hand and feels, Whether I am a bed, which being assur'd of, He sleeps again; but should he miss me, Valour Could not defend our lives. _Din._ What's to be done then? _Lam._ Servants have servile faiths, nor have I any That I dare trust; on noble _Cleremont_ We safely may rely. _Cler._ What man can do, Command and boldly. _Lam._ Thus then in my place, You must lye with my Lord. _Cler._ With an old man? Two Beards together, that's preposterous. _Lam._ There is no other way, and though 'tis dangerous, He having servants within call, and arm'd too, Slaves fed to act all that his jealousie And rage commands them, yet a true friend should not Check at the hazard of a life. _Cler._ I thank you, I love my friend, but know no reason why To hate my self; to be a kind of pander, You see I am willing, But to betray mine own throat you must pardon. _Din._ Then I am lost, and all my hopes defeated, Were I to hazard ten times more for you, You should find, _Cleremont_-- _Cler._ You shall not outdo me, Fall what may fall, I'll do't. _Din._ But for his Beard-- _Lam._ To cover that you shall have my night Linnen, And you dispos'd of, my _Dinant_ and I Will have some private conference. _Enter_ Champernel, _privately_. _Cler._ Private doing, Or I'll not venture. _Lam._ That's as we agree. [_Exeunt._ _Enter Nurse, and_ Charlotte, _pass over the Stage with Pillows, Night cloaths, and such things_. _Cham._ What can this Woman do, preserving her honour? I have given her all the liberty that may be, I will not be far off though, nor I will not be jealous, Nor trust too much, I think she is vertuous, Yet when I hold her best, she's but a Woman, As full of frailty as of faith, a poor sleight Woman, And her best thoughts, but weak fortifications, There may be a Mine wrought: Well, let 'em work then, I shall meet with it, till the signs be monstrous, And stick upon my head, I will not believe it, [_Stands private._ She may be, and she may not, now to my observation. _Enter_ Dinant, _and_ Lamira. _Din._ Why do you make me stay so? if you love me-- _Lam._ You are too hot and violent. _Din._ Why do you shift thus From one Chamber to another? _Lam._ A little delay, Sir, Like fire, a little sprinkled o'r with water Makes the desires burn clear, and ten times hotter. _Din._ Why do you speak so loud? I pray'e go in, Sweet Mistriss, I am mad, time steals away, And when we would enjoy-- _Lam._ Now fie, fie, Servant, Like sensual Beasts shall we enjoy our pleasures? _Din._ 'Pray do not kiss me then. _Lam._ Why, that I will, and you shall find anon, servant. _Din._ Softly, for heavens sake, you know my friend's engag'd, A little now, now; will ye go in again? _Lam._ Ha, ha, ha, ha. _Din._ Why do you laugh so loud, Precious? Will you betray me; ha' my friends throat cut? _Lam._ Come, come, I'll kiss thee again. _Cham._ Will you so? you are liberal, If you do cozen me-- _Enter Nurse with Wine._ _Din._ What's this? _Lam._ Wine, Wine, a draught or two. _Din._ What does this Woman here? _Lam._ She shall not hinder you. _Din._ This might have been spar'd, 'Tis but delay and time lost; pray send her softly off. _Lam._ Sit down, and mix your spirits with Wine, I will make you another _Hercules_. _Din._ I dare not drink; Fie, what delays you make! I dare not, I shall be drunk presently, and do strange things then. _Lam._ Not drink a cup with your Mistriss! O the pleasure. _Din._ Lady, why this? [_Musick._ _Lam._ We must have mirth to our Wine, Man. _Din._ Pl---- o' the Musick. _Champ._ God-a-mercy Wench, If thou dost cuckold me I shall forgive thee. _Din._ The house will all rise now, this will disturb all. Did you do this? _Lam._ Peace, and sit quiet, fool, You love me, come, sit down and drink. _Enter_ Cleremont _above_. _Cler._ What a Devil ail you? How cold I sweat! a hogs pox stop your pipes, [_Musick._ The thing will 'wake; now, now, methinks I find His Sword just gliding through my throat. What's that? A vengeance choak your pipes. Are you there, Lady? Stop, stop those Rascals; do you bring me hither To be cut into minced meat? why _Dinant_? _Din._ I cannot do withal; I have spoke, and spoke; I am betray'd and lost too. _Cler._ Do you hear me? do you understand me? 'Plague dam your Whistles. [_Musick ends._ _Lam._ 'Twas but an over-sight, they have done, lye down. _Cler._ Would you had done too, You know not In what a misery and fear I lye. You have a Lady in your arms. _Din._ I would have-- [_The Recorders again._ _Champ._ I'll watch you Goodman Wou'd have. _Cler._ Remove for Heavens sake, And fall to that you come for. _Lam._ Lie you down, 'Tis but an hours endurance now. _Cler._ I dare not, softly sweet Lady ----heart? _Lam._ 'Tis nothing but your fear, he sleeps still soundly, Lie gently down. _Cler._ 'Pray make an end. _Din._ Come, Madam. _Lam._ These Chambers are too near. [_Ex._ Din. Lam. _Cham._ I shall be nearer; Well, go thy wayes, I'le trust thee through the world, Deal how thou wilt: that that I never feel, I'le never fear. Yet by the honour of a Souldier, I hold thee truly noble: How these things will look, And how their blood will curdle! Play on Children, You shall have pap anon. O thou grand Fool, That thou knew'st but thy fortune-- [_Musick done._ _Cler._ Peace, good Madam, Stop her mouth, _Dinant_, it sleeps yet, 'pray be wary, Dispatch, I cannot endure this misery, I can hear nothing more; I'll say my prayers, And down again-- [_Whistle within._ A thousand Alarms fall upon my quarters, Heaven send me off; when I lye keeping Courses. Pl---- o' your fumbling, _Dinant_; how I shake! 'Tis still again: would I were in the _Indies_. [_Exit_ Cler. _Enter_ Dinant, _and_ Lamira: _a light within_. _Din._ Why do you use me thus? thus poorly? basely? Work me into a hope, and then destroy me? Why did you send for me? this new way train me? _Lam._ Mad-man, and fool, and false man, now I'll shew thee. _Din._ 'Pray put your light out. _Lam._ Nay I'll hold it thus, That all chaste Eyes may see thy lust, and scorn it. Tell me but this when you first doted on me, And made suit to enjoy me as your Wife, Did you not hold me honest? _Din._ Yes, most vertuous. _Lam._ And did not that appear the only lustre That made me worth your love and admiration? _Din._ I must confess-- _Lam._ Why would you deal so basely? So like a thief, a Villain? _Din._ Peace, good Madam. _Lam._ I'll speak aloud too; thus maliciously, Thus breaking all the Rules of honesty, Of honour and of truth, for which I lov'd you, For which I call'd you servant, and admir'd you; To steal that Jewel purchas'd by another, Piously set in Wedlock, even that Jewel, Because it had no flaw, you held unvaluable: Can he that has lov'd good, dote on the Devil? For he that seeks a Whore, seeks but his Agent; Or am I of so wild and low a blood? So nurs'd in infamies? _Din._ I do not think so, And I repent. _Lam._ That will not serve your turn, Sir. _Din._ It was your treaty drew me on. _Lam._ But it was your villany Made you pursue it; I drew you but to try How much a man, and nobly thou durst stand, How well you had deserv'd the name of vertuous; But you like a wild torrent, mix'd with all Beastly and base affections came floating on, Swelling your poyson'd billows-- _Din._ Will you betray me? _Lam._ To all the miseries a vext Woman may. _Din._ Let me but out, Give me but room to toss my Sword about me, And I will tell you y'are a treacherous woman, O that I had but words! _Lam._ They will not serve you. _Din._ But two-edg'd words to cut thee; a Lady traytor? Perish by a proud Puppet? I did you too much honour, To tender you my love, too much respected you To think you worthy of my worst embraces. Go take your Groom, and let him dally with you, Your greasie Groom; I scorn to imp your lame stock, You are not fair, nor handsome, I lyed loudly, This tongue abus'd you when it spoke you beauteous. _Lam._ 'Tis very well, 'tis brave. _Din._ Put out your light, Your lascivious eyes are flames enough For Fools to find you out; a Lady Plotter! Must I begin your sacrifice of mischief? I and my friend, the first-fruits of that bloud, You and your honourable Husband aim at? Crooked and wretched you are both. _Lam._ To you, Sir, Yet to the Eye of Justice straight as Truth. _Din._ Is this a womans love? a womans mercy? Do you profess this seriously? do you laugh at me? _Lam._ Ha, ha. _Din._ Pl---- light upon your scorns, upon your flatteries, Upon your tempting faces, all destructions; A bedrid winter hang upon your cheeks, And blast, blast, blast those buds of Pride that paint you; Death in your eyes to fright men from these dangers: Raise up your trophy, _Cleremont_. _Cler._ What a vengeance ail you? _Din._ What dismal noise! is there no honour in you? _Cleremont_, we are betrayed, betrayed, sold by a woman; Deal bravely for thy self. _Cler._ This comes of rutting; Are we made stales to one another? _Din._ Yes, we are undone, lost. _Cler._ You shall pay for't grey-beard. Up, up, you sleep your last else. {_Lights above, two Servants {and_ Anabel. _1 Serv._ No, not yet, Sir, Lady, look up, would you have wrong'd this Beauty? Wake so tender a Virgin with rough terms? You wear a Sword, we must entreat you leave it. _2 Serv._ Fye Sir, so sweet a Lady? _Cler._ Was this my bed-fellow, pray give me leave to look, I am not mad yet, I may be by and by. Did this lye by me? Did I fear this? is this a Cause to shake at? Away with me for shame, I am a Rascal. _Enter_ Champernel, Beaupre, Verdone, Lamira, Anabel, Cleremont, _and two Servants_. _Din._ I am amaz'd too. _Beaup._ We'll recover you. _Verd._ You walk like _Robin-good-fellow_ all the house over, And every man afraid of you. _Din._ 'Tis well, Lady; The honour of this deed will be your own, The world shall know your bounty. _Beaup._ What shall we do with 'em? _Cler._ Geld me, For 'tis not fit I should be a man again, I am an Ass, a Dog. _Lam._ Take your revenges, You know my Husbands wrongs and your own losses. _Anab._ A brave man, an admirable brave man; Well, well, I would not be so tryed again; A very handsome proper Gentleman. _Cler._ Will you let me lye by her but one hour more, And then hang me? _Din._ We wait your malice, put your swords home bravely, You have reason to seek bloud. _Lam._ Not as you are noble. _Cham._ Hands off, and give them liberty, only disarm 'em. _Beaup._ We have done that already. _Cham._ You are welcome, Gentlemen, I am glad my house has any pleasure for you, I keep a couple of Ladies here, they say fair, And you are young and handsome, Gentlemen; Have you any more mind to Wenches? _Cler._ To be abus'd too? Lady, you might have help'd this. _Ana._ Sir now 'tis past, but 't may be I may stand Your friend hereafter, in a greater matter. _Cler._ Never whilst you live. _Ana._ You cannot tell--now, Sir, a parting hand. _Cler._ Down and Roses: Well I may live to see you again. A dull Rogue, No revelation in thee. _Lam._ Were you well frighted? Were your fitts from the heart, of all colds and colours? That's all your punishment. _Cler._ It might have been all yours, Had not a block-head undertaken it. _Cham._ Your swords you must leave to these Gentlemen. _Verd._ And now, when you dare fight, We are on even Ice again. _Din._ 'Tis well: To be a Mistris, is to be a monster, And so I leave your house, and you for ever. _Lam._ Leave your wild lusts, and then you are a master. _Cham._ You may depart too. _Cler._ I had rather stay here. _Cham._ Faith we shall fright you worse. _Cler._ Not in that manner, There's five hundred Crowns, fright me but so again. _Din._ Come _Cleremont_, this is the hour of fool. _Cler._ Wiser the next shall be or we'll to School. [_Exeunt._ _Champ._ How coolly these hot gallants are departed! Faith Cousin, 'twas unconscionably done, To lye so still, and so long. _Anab._ 'Twas your pleasure, If 'twere a fault, I may hereafter mend. _Champ._ O my best Wife, Take now what course thou wilt, and lead what life. _Lam._ The more trust you commit, the more care still, Goodness and vertue shall attend my will. _Cham._ Let's laugh this night out now, and count our gains. We have our honours home, and they their pains. [_Exeunt omnes._ _Actus Quartus. Scena Prima._ _Enter_ Cleremont, Dinant. _Din._ It holds, they will go thither. _Cler._ To their Summer-house? _Din._ Thither i'th' evening, and which is the most infliction, Only to insult upon our miseries. _Cler._ Are you provided? _Din._ Yes, yes. _Cler._ Throughly? _Din._ Throughly. _Cler._ Basta, enough, I have your mind, I will not fail you. _Din._ At such an hour. _Cler._ Have I a memory? A Cause, and Will to do? thou art so sullen-- _Din._ And shall be, till I have a fair reparation. _Cler._ I have more reason, for I scaped a fortune, Which if I come so near again: I say nothing, But if I sweat not in another fashion-- O, a delicate Wench. _Din._ 'Tis certain a most handsome one. _Cler._ And me thought the thing was angry with it self too It lay so long conceal'd, but I must part with you, I have a scene of mirth, to drive this from my heart, And my hour is come. _Din._ Miss not your time. _Cler._ I dare not. [_Exeunt severally._ _Enter_ Sampson, _and a Gentleman_. _Gent._ I presume, Sir, you now need no instruction, But fairly know, what belongs to a Gentleman; You bear your Uncles cause. _Sam._ Do not disturb me, I understand my cause, and the right carriage. _Gent._ Be not too bloody. _Sam._ As I find my enemy; if his sword bite, If it bite, Sir, you must pardon me. _Gent._ No doubt he is valiant, He durst not undertake else, _Sam._ He's most welcome, As he is most valiant, he were no man for me else. _Gent._ But say he should relent. _Sam._ He dies relenting, I cannot help it, he must di[e] relenting, If he pray, praying, _ipso facto_, praying, Your honourable way admits no prayer, And if he fight, he falls, there's his _quietus_. _Gent._ Y'are nobly punctual, let's retire and meet 'em, But still, I say, have mercy. _Samp._ I say, honour. [_Exeunt._ _Enter_ Champernel, Lamira, Anabel, Beaupre, Verdone, Charlote _and a Servant_. _Lam._ Will not you go sweet-heart? _Champ._ Go? I'le fly with thee. I stay behind? _Lam._ My Father will be there too, And all our best friends. _Beau._ And if we be not merry, We have hard luck, Lady. _Verd._ Faith let's have a kind of play. _Cham._ What shall it be? _Verd._ The story of _Dinant_. _Lam._ With the merry conceits of _Cleremont_, His Fits and Feavers. _Ana._ But I'le lie still no more. _Lam._ That, as you make the Play, 'twill be rare sport, And how 'twill vex my gallants, when they hear it! Have you given order for the Coach? _Charl._ Yes, Madam. _Cham._ My easie Nag, and padd. _Serv._ 'Tis making ready. _Champ._ Where are your Horses? _Beau._ Ready at an hour, Sir: we'll not be last. _Cham._ Fie, what a night shall we have! A roaring, merry night. _Lam._ We'll flie at all, Sir. _Cham._ I'le flie at thee too, finely, and so ruffle thee, I'le try your Art upon a Country pallet. _Lam._ Brag not too much, for fear I should expect it, Then if you fail-- _Cham._ Thou saiest too true, we all talk.

speak

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

villain, (But yet no coward) and sollicites me To my dishonour, that's indeed a quarrel, And truly mine, which I will so revenge, As it shall fright such as dare only think To be adulterers. _Cham._ Use thine own waies, I give up all to thee. _Beau._ O women, women! When you are pleas'd you are the least of evils. _Verd._ I'le rime to't, but provokt, the worst of Devils. [_Exeunt._ _Enter Monsieur_ Sampson, _and three Clients_. _Samp._ I know Monsieur _La-writ_. _1 Cly._ Would he knew himself, Sir. _Samp._ He was a pretty Lawyer, a kind of pretty Lawyer, Of a kind of unable thing. _2 Cly._ A fine Lawyer, Sir, And would have firk'd you up a business, And out of this Court into that. _Samp._ Ye are too forward Not so fine my friends, something he could have done, But short short. _1 Cly._ I know your worships favour, You are Nephew to the Judge, Sir. _Samp._ It may be so, And something may be done, without trotting i'th' dirt, friends; It may be I can take him in his Chamber, And have an hours talk, it may be so, And tell him that in's ear; there are such courtesies; I will not say, I can. _3 Cly._ We know you can, Sir. _Sam._ Peradventure I, peradventure no: but where's _La-writ_? Where's your sufficient Lawyer? _1 Cly._ He's blown up, Sir. _2 Cly._ Run mad and quarrels with the Dog he meets; He is no Lawyer of this world now. _Sam._ Your reason? Is he defunct? is he dead? _2 Cly._ No he's not dead yet, Sir; But I would be loth to take a lease on's life for two hours: Alas, he is possest Sir, with the spirit of fighting And quarrels with all people; but how he came to it-- _Samp._ If he fight well and like a Gentleman, The man may fight, for 'tis a lawfull calling. Look you my friends, I am a civil Gentleman, And my Lord my Uncle loves me. _3 Cly._ We all know it, Sir. _Sam._ I think he does, Sir, I have business too, much business, Turn you some forty or fifty Causes in a week; Yet when I get an hour of vacancie, I can fight too my friends, a little does well, I would be loth to learn to fight. _1 Cly._ But and't please you Sir, His fighting has neglected all our business, We are undone, our causes cast away, Sir, His not appearance. _Sam._ There he fought too long, A little and fight well, he fought too long indeed friends; But ne'r the less things must be as they may, And there be wayes-- _1 Cly._ We know, Sir, if you please-- _Sam._ Something I'le do: goe rally up your Causes. _Enter_ La-writ, _and a_ Gentleman, _at the door_. _2 Cly._ Now you may behold Sir, And be a witness, whether we lie or no. _La-writ._ I'le meet you at the Ordinary, sweet Gentlemen, And if there be a wench or two-- _Gen._ We'll have 'em. _La-writ._ No handling any Duells before I come, We'll have no going else, I hate a coward. _Gent._ There shall be nothing done. _La-writ._ Make all the quarrels You can devise before I come, and let's all fight, There is no sport else. _Gent._ We'll see what may be done, Sir. _1 Cly._ Ha? Monsieur _La-writ_. _La-writ._ Baffled in way of business, My causes cast away, Judgement against us? Why there it goes. _2 Cly._ What shall we do the whilst Sir? _La-wr._ Breed new dissentions, goe hang your selves 'Tis all one to me; I have a new trade of living. _1 Cli._ Do you hear what he saies Sir? _Sam._ The Gentleman speaks finely. _La-wr._ Will any of you fight? Fighting's my occupation If you find your selves aggriev'd. _Sam._ A compleat Gentleman. _La-writ._ Avant thou buckram budget of petitions, Thou spittle of lame causes; I lament for thee, And till revenge be taken-- _Sam._ 'Tis most excellent. _La-wr._ There, every man chuse his paper, and his place. I'le answer ye all, I will neglect no mans business But he shall have satisfaction like a Gentleman, The Judge may do and not do, he's but a Monsieur. _Sam._ You have nothing of mine in your bag, Sir. _La-writ._ I know not Sir, But you may put any thing in, any fighting thing. _Sam._ It is sufficient, you may hear hereafter. _La-writ._ I rest your servant Sir. _Sam._ No more words Gentlemen But follow me, no more words as you love me, The Gentleman's a noble Gentleman. I shall do what I can, and then-- _Cli._ We thank you Sir. [_Ex._ Sam. _and_ Clients. _Sam._ Not a word to disturb him, he's a Gentleman. _La-writ._ No cause go o' my side? the judge cast all? And because I was honourably employed in action, And not appear'd, pronounce? 'tis very well, 'Tis well faith, 'tis well, Judge. _Enter_ Cleremont. _Cler._ Who have we here? My little furious Lawyer? _La-writ._ I say 'tis well, But mark the end. _Cler._ How he is metamorphos'd! Nothing of Lawyer left, not a bit of buckram, No solliciting face now, This is no simple conversion. Your servant Sir, and Friend. _La-writ._ You come in time, Sir, _Cler._ The happier man, to be at your command then. _La-writ._ You may wonder to see me thus; but that's all one, Time shall declare; 'tis true I was a Lawyer, But I have mew'd that coat, I hate a Lawyer, I talk'd much in the Court, now I hate talking, I did you the office of a man. _Cler._ I must confess it. _La-w._ And budg'd not, no I budg'd not. _Cler._ No, you did not. _La-w._ There's it then, one good turn requires another. _Cler._ Most willing Sir, I am ready at your service. _La-w._ There, read, and understand, and then deliver it. _Cler._ This is a Challenge, Sir, _La-w._ 'Tis very like, Sir, I seldom now write Sonnets. _Cler._ _O admirantis_, To Monsieur _Vertaign_, the President. _La-w._ I chuse no Fool, Sir. _Cler._ Why, he's no Sword-man, Sir. _La-w._ Let him learn, let him learn, Time, that trains Chickens up, will teach him quickly. _Cler._ Why, he's a Judge, an Old Man. _La-w._ Never too Old To be a Gentleman; and he that is a Judge Can judge best what belongs to wounded honour. There are my griefs, he has cast away my causes, In which he has bowed my reputation. And therefore Judge, or no Judge. _Cler._ 'Pray be rul'd Sir, This is the maddest thing-- _La-w._ You will not carry it. _Cler._ I do not tell you so, but if you may be perswaded. _La-w._ You know how you us'd me when I would not fight, Do you remember, Gentleman? _Cler._ The Devil's in him. _La-w._ I see it in your Eyes, that you dare do it, You have a carrying face, and you shall carry it. _Cler._ The least is Banishment. _La-w._ Be banish'd then; 'Tis a friends part, we'll meet in _Africa_, Or any part of the Earth. _Cler._ Say he will not fight. _La-w._ I know then what to say, take you no care, Sir, _Cler._ Well, I will carry it, and deliver it, And to morrow morning meet you in the Louver, Till when, my service. _La-w._ A Judge, or no Judge, no Judge. [_Exit_ La-writ. _Cler._ This is the prettiest Rogue that e'r I read of, None to provoke to th' field, but the old President; What face shall I put on? if I come in earnest, I am sure to wear a pair of Bracelets; This may make some sport yet, I will deliver it, Here comes the President. _Enter_ Vertaign, _with two Gentlemen_. _Vert._ I shall find time, Gentlemen, To do your causes good, is not that _Cleremont_? _1 Gent._ 'Tis he my Lord. _Vert._ Why does he smile upon me? Am I become ridiculous? has your fortune, Sir, Upon my Son, made you contemn his Father? The glory of a Gentleman is fair bearing. _Cler._ Mistake me not my Lord, you shall not find that, I come with no blown Spirit to abuse you, I know your place and honour due unto it, The reverence to your silver Age and Vertue. _Vert._ Your face is merry still. _Cler._ So is my business, And I beseech your honour mistake me not, I have brought you from a wild or rather Mad-man As mad a piece of--you were wont to love mirth In your young days, I have known your Honour woo it, This may be made no little one, 'tis a Challenge, Sir, Nay, start not, I beseech you, it means you no harm, Nor any Man of Honour, or Understanding, 'Tis to steal from your serious hours a little laughter; I am bold to bring it to your Lordship. _Vert._ 'Tis to me indeed: Do they take me for a Sword-man at these years? _Cler._ 'Tis only worth your Honours Mirth, that's all Sir, 'Thad been in me else a sawcy rudeness. _Vert._ From one _La-writ_, a very punctual Challenge. _Cler._ But if your Lordship mark it, no great matter. _Vert._ I have known such a wrangling Advocate, Such a little figent thing; Oh I remember him, A notable talking Knave, now out upon him, Has challeng'd me downright, defied me mortally I do remember too, I cast his Causes. _Cler._ Why, there's the quarrel, Sir, the mortal quarrel. _Vert._ Why, what a Knave is this? as y'are a Gentleman, Is there no further purpose but meer mirth? What a bold Man of War! he invites me roundly. _Cler._ If there should be, I were no Gentleman, Nor worthy of the honour of my Kindred. And though I am sure your Lordship hates my Person, Which Time may bring again into your favour, Yet for the manners-- _Vert._ I am satisfied, You see, Sir, I have out-liv'd those days of fighting, And therefore cannot do him the honour to beat him my self; But I have a Kinsman much of his ability, His Wit and Courage, for this call him Fool, One that will spit as senseless fire as this Fellow. _Cler._ And such a man to undertake, my Lord? _Vert._ Nay he's too forward; these two pitch Barrels together. _Cler._ Upon my soul, no harm. _Vert._ It makes me smile, Why, what a stinking smother will they utter! Yes, he shall undertake, Sir, as my Champion, Since you propound it mirth, I'll venture on it, And shall defend my cause, but as y'are honest Sport not with bloud. _Cler._ Think not so basely, good Sir. _Vert._ A Squire shall wait upon you from my Kinsman, To morrow morning make you sport at full, You want no Subject; but no wounds. _Cler._ That's my care. _Ver._ And so good day. [_Ex._ Vertaign, _and Gentlemen_. _Cler._ Many unto your honour. This is a noble Fellow, of a sweet Spirit, Now must I think how to contrive this matter, For together they shall go. _Enter_ Dinant. _Din._ O _Cleremont_, I am glad I have found thee. _Cler._ I can tell thee rare things. _Din._ O, I can tell thee rarer, Dost thou love me? _Cler._ Love thee? _Din._ Dost thou love me dearly? Dar'st thou for my sake? _Cler._ Any thing that's honest. _Din._ Though it be dangerous? _Cler._ Pox o' dangerous. _Din._ Nay wondrous dangerous. _Cler._ Wilt thou break my heart? _Din._ Along with me then. _Cler._ I must part to morrow. _Din._ You shall, you shall, be faithful for this night, And thou hast made thy friend. _Cler._ Away, and talk not. [_Exeunt._ _Enter_ Lamira, _and Nurse_. _Lam._ O Nurse, welcome, where's _Dinant_? _Nurse._ He's at my back. 'Tis the most liberal Gentleman, this Gold He gave me for my pains, nor can I blame you, If you yield up the fort. _Lam._ How? yield it up? _Nurse._ I know not, he that loves, and gives so largely, And a young Lord to boot, or I am cozen'd, May enter every where. _Lam._ Thou'lt make me angry. _Enter_ Dinant, _and_ Cleremont. _Nur._ Why, if you are, I hope here's one will please you, Look on him with my Eyes, good luck go with you: Were I young for your sake-- _Din._ I thank thee, Nurse. _Nur._ I would be tractable, and as I am-- _Lam._ Leave the room, So old, and so immodest! and be careful, Since whispers will 'wake sleeping jealousies, That none disturb my Lord. [_Exit Nurse._ _Cler._ Will you dispatch? Till you come to the matter be not rapt thus, Walk in, walk in, I am your scout for once, You owe me the like service. _Din._ And will pay it. _Lam._ As you respect our lives, speak not so loud. _Cler._ Why, do it in dumb shew then, I am silenc'd. _Lam._ Be not so hasty, Sir, the golden Apples Had a fell Dragon for their Guard, your pleasures Are to be attempted with _Herculean_ danger, Or never to be gotten. _Din._ Speak the means. _Lam._ Thus briefly, my Lord sleeps now, and alas, Each Night, he only sleeps. _Cler._ Go, keep her stirring. _Lam._ Now if he 'wake, as sometimes he does, He only stretches out his hand and feels, Whether I am a bed, which being assur'd of, He sleeps again; but should he miss me, Valour Could not defend our lives. _Din._ What's to be done then? _Lam._ Servants have servile faiths, nor have I any That I dare trust; on noble _Cleremont_ We safely may rely. _Cler._ What man can do, Command and boldly. _Lam._ Thus then in my place, You must lye with my Lord. _Cler._ With an old man? Two Beards together, that's preposterous. _Lam._ There is no other way, and though 'tis dangerous, He having servants within call, and arm'd too, Slaves fed to act all that his jealousie And rage commands them, yet a true friend should not Check at the hazard of a life. _Cler._ I thank you, I love my friend, but know no reason why To hate my self; to be a kind of pander, You see I am willing, But to betray mine own throat you must pardon. _Din._ Then I am lost, and all my hopes defeated, Were I to hazard ten times more for you, You should find, _Cleremont_-- _Cler._ You shall not outdo me, Fall what may fall, I'll do't. _Din._ But for his Beard-- _Lam._ To cover that you shall have my night Linnen, And you dispos'd of, my _Dinant_ and I Will have some private conference. _Enter_ Champernel, _privately_. _Cler._ Private doing, Or I'll not venture. _Lam._ That's as we agree. [_Exeunt._ _Enter Nurse, and_ Charlotte, _pass over the Stage with Pillows, Night cloaths, and such things_. _Cham._ What can this Woman do, preserving her honour? I have given her all the liberty that may be, I will not be far off though, nor I will not be jealous, Nor trust too much, I think she is vertuous, Yet when I hold her best, she's but a Woman, As full of frailty as of faith, a poor sleight Woman, And her best thoughts, but weak fortifications, There may be a Mine wrought: Well, let 'em work then, I shall meet with it, till the signs be monstrous, And stick upon my head, I will not believe it, [_Stands private._ She may be, and she may not, now to my observation. _Enter_ Dinant, _and_ Lamira. _Din._ Why do you make me stay so? if you love me-- _Lam._ You are too hot and violent. _Din._ Why do you shift thus From one Chamber to another? _Lam._ A little delay, Sir, Like fire, a little sprinkled o'r with water Makes the desires burn clear, and ten times hotter. _Din._ Why do you speak so loud? I pray'e go in, Sweet Mistriss, I am mad, time steals away, And when we would enjoy-- _Lam._ Now fie, fie, Servant, Like sensual Beasts shall we enjoy our pleasures? _Din._ 'Pray do not kiss me then. _Lam._ Why, that I will, and you shall find anon, servant. _Din._ Softly, for heavens sake, you know my friend's engag'd, A little now, now; will ye go in again? _Lam._ Ha, ha, ha, ha. _Din._ Why do you laugh so loud, Precious? Will you betray me; ha' my friends throat cut? _Lam._ Come, come, I'll kiss thee again. _Cham._ Will you so? you are liberal, If you do cozen me-- _Enter Nurse with Wine._ _Din._ What's this? _Lam._ Wine, Wine, a draught or two. _Din._ What does this Woman here? _Lam._ She shall not hinder you. _Din._ This might have been spar'd, 'Tis but delay and time lost; pray send her softly off. _Lam._ Sit down, and mix your spirits with Wine, I will make you another _Hercules_. _Din._ I dare not drink; Fie, what delays you make! I dare not, I shall be drunk presently, and do strange things then. _Lam._ Not drink a cup with your Mistriss! O the pleasure. _Din._ Lady, why this? [_Musick._ _Lam._ We must have mirth to our Wine, Man. _Din._ Pl---- o' the Musick. _Champ._ God-a-mercy Wench, If thou dost cuckold me I shall forgive thee. _Din._ The house will all rise now, this will disturb all. Did you do this? _Lam._ Peace, and sit quiet, fool, You love me, come, sit down and drink. _Enter_ Cleremont _above_. _Cler._ What a Devil ail you? How cold I sweat! a hogs pox stop your pipes, [_Musick._ The thing will 'wake; now, now, methinks I find His Sword just gliding through my throat. What's that? A vengeance choak your pipes. Are you there, Lady? Stop, stop those Rascals; do you bring me hither To be cut into minced meat? why _Dinant_? _Din._ I cannot do withal; I have spoke, and spoke; I am betray'd and lost too. _Cler._ Do you hear me? do you understand me? 'Plague dam your Whistles. [_Musick ends._ _Lam._ 'Twas but an over-sight, they have done, lye down. _Cler._ Would you had done too, You know not In what a misery and fear I lye. You have a Lady in your arms. _Din._ I would have-- [_The Recorders again._ _Champ._ I'll watch you Goodman Wou'd have. _Cler._ Remove for Heavens sake, And fall to that you come for. _Lam._ Lie you down, 'Tis but an hours endurance now. _Cler._ I dare not, softly sweet Lady ----heart? _Lam._ 'Tis nothing but your fear, he sleeps still soundly, Lie gently down. _Cler._ 'Pray make an end. _Din._ Come, Madam. _Lam._ These Chambers are too near. [_Ex._ Din. Lam. _Cham._ I shall be nearer; Well, go thy wayes, I'le trust thee through the world, Deal how thou wilt: that that I never feel, I'le never fear. Yet by the honour of a Souldier, I hold thee truly noble: How these things will look, And how their blood will curdle! Play on Children, You shall have pap anon. O thou grand Fool, That thou knew'st but thy fortune-- [_Musick done._ _Cler._ Peace, good Madam, Stop her mouth, _Dinant_, it sleeps yet, 'pray be wary, Dispatch, I cannot endure this misery, I can hear nothing more; I'll say my prayers, And down again-- [_Whistle within._ A thousand Alarms fall upon my quarters, Heaven send me off; when I lye keeping Courses. Pl---- o' your fumbling, _Dinant_; how I shake! 'Tis still again: would I were in the _Indies_. [_Exit_ Cler. _Enter_ Dinant, _and_ Lamira: _a light within_. _Din._ Why do you use me thus? thus poorly? basely? Work me into a hope, and then destroy me? Why did you send for me? this new way train me? _Lam._ Mad-man, and fool, and false man, now I'll shew thee. _Din._ 'Pray put your light out. _Lam._ Nay I'll hold it thus, That all chaste Eyes may see thy lust, and scorn it. Tell me but this when you first doted on me, And made suit to enjoy me as your Wife, Did you not hold me honest? _Din._ Yes, most vertuous. _Lam._ And did not that appear the only lustre That made me worth your love and admiration? _Din._ I must confess-- _Lam._ Why would you deal so basely? So like a thief, a Villain? _Din._ Peace, good Madam. _Lam._ I'll speak aloud too; thus maliciously, Thus breaking all the Rules of honesty, Of honour and of truth, for which I lov'd you, For which I call'd you servant, and admir'd you; To steal that Jewel purchas'd by another, Piously set in Wedlock, even that Jewel, Because it had no flaw, you held unvaluable: Can he that has lov'd good, dote on the Devil? For he that seeks a Whore, seeks but his Agent; Or am I of so wild and low a blood? So nurs'd in infamies? _Din._ I do not think so, And I repent. _Lam._ That will not serve your turn, Sir. _Din._ It was your treaty drew me on. _Lam._ But it was your villany Made you pursue it; I drew you but to try How much a man, and nobly thou durst stand, How well you had deserv'd the name of vertuous; But you like a wild torrent, mix'd with all Beastly and base affections came floating on, Swelling your poyson'd billows-- _Din._ Will you betray me? _Lam._ To all the miseries a vext Woman may. _Din._ Let me but out, Give me but room to toss my Sword about me, And I will tell you y'are a treacherous woman, O that I had but words! _Lam._ They will not serve you. _Din._ But two-edg'd words to cut thee; a Lady traytor? Perish by a proud Puppet? I did you too much honour, To tender you my love, too much respected you To think you worthy of my worst embraces. Go take your Groom, and let him dally with you, Your greasie Groom; I scorn to imp your lame stock, You are not fair, nor handsome, I lyed loudly, This tongue abus'd you when it spoke you beauteous. _Lam._ 'Tis very well, 'tis brave. _Din._ Put out your light, Your lascivious eyes are flames enough For Fools to find you out; a Lady Plotter! Must I begin your sacrifice of mischief? I and my friend, the first-fruits of that bloud, You and your honourable Husband aim at? Crooked and wretched you are both. _Lam._ To you, Sir, Yet to the Eye of Justice straight as Truth. _Din._ Is this a womans love? a womans mercy? Do you profess this seriously? do you laugh at me? _Lam._ Ha, ha. _Din._ Pl---- light upon your scorns, upon your flatteries, Upon your tempting faces, all destructions; A bedrid winter hang upon your cheeks, And blast, blast, blast those buds of Pride that paint you; Death in your eyes to fright men from these dangers: Raise up your trophy, _Cleremont_. _Cler._ What a vengeance ail you? _Din._ What dismal noise! is there no honour in you? _Cleremont_, we are betrayed, betrayed, sold by a woman; Deal bravely for thy self. _Cler._ This comes of rutting; Are we made stales to one another? _Din._ Yes, we are undone, lost. _Cler._ You shall pay for't grey-beard. Up, up, you sleep your last else. {_Lights above, two Servants {and_ Anabel. _1 Serv._ No, not yet, Sir, Lady, look up, would you have wrong'd this Beauty? Wake so tender a Virgin with rough terms? You wear a Sword, we must entreat you leave it. _2 Serv._ Fye Sir, so sweet a Lady? _Cler._ Was this my bed-fellow, pray give me leave to look, I am not mad yet, I may be by and by. Did this lye by me? Did I fear this? is this a Cause to shake at? Away with me for shame, I am a Rascal. _Enter_ Champernel, Beaupre, Verdone, Lamira, Anabel, Cleremont, _and two Servants_. _Din._ I am amaz'd too. _Beaup._ We'll recover you. _Verd._ You walk like _Robin-good-fellow_ all the house over, And every man afraid of you. _Din._ 'Tis well, Lady; The honour of this deed will be your own, The world shall know your bounty. _Beaup._ What shall we do with 'em? _Cler._ Geld me, For 'tis not fit I should be a man again, I am an Ass, a Dog. _Lam._ Take your revenges, You know my Husbands wrongs and your own losses. _Anab._ A brave man, an admirable brave man; Well, well, I would not be so tryed again; A very handsome proper Gentleman. _Cler._ Will you let me lye by her but one hour more, And then hang me? _Din._ We wait your malice, put your swords home bravely, You have reason to seek bloud. _Lam._ Not as you are noble. _Cham._ Hands off, and give them liberty, only disarm 'em. _Beaup._ We have done that already. _Cham._ You are welcome, Gentlemen, I am glad my house has any pleasure for you, I keep a couple of Ladies here, they say fair, And you are young and handsome, Gentlemen; Have you any more mind to Wenches? _Cler._ To be abus'd too? Lady, you might have help'd this. _Ana._ Sir now 'tis past, but 't may be I may stand Your friend hereafter, in a greater matter. _Cler._ Never whilst you live. _Ana._ You cannot tell--now, Sir, a parting hand. _Cler._ Down and Roses: Well I may live to see you again. A dull Rogue, No revelation in thee. _Lam._ Were you well frighted? Were your fitts from the heart, of all colds and colours? That's all your punishment. _Cler._ It might have been all yours, Had not a block-head undertaken it. _Cham._ Your swords you must leave to these Gentlemen. _Verd._ And now, when you dare fight, We are on even Ice again. _Din._ 'Tis well: To be a Mistris, is to be a monster, And so I leave your house, and you for ever. _Lam._ Leave your wild lusts, and then you are a master. _Cham._ You may depart too. _Cler._ I had rather stay here. _Cham._ Faith we shall fright you worse. _Cler._ Not in that manner, There's five hundred Crowns, fright me but so again. _Din._ Come _Cleremont_, this is the hour of fool. _Cler._ Wiser the next shall be or we'll to School. [_Exeunt._ _Champ._ How coolly these hot gallants are departed! Faith Cousin, 'twas unconscionably done, To lye so still, and so long. _Anab._ 'Twas your pleasure, If 'twere a fault, I may hereafter mend. _Champ._ O my best Wife, Take now what course thou wilt, and lead what life. _Lam._ The more trust you commit, the more care still, Goodness and vertue shall attend my will. _Cham._ Let's laugh this night out now, and count our gains. We have our honours home, and they their pains. [_Exeunt omnes._ _Actus Quartus. Scena Prima._ _Enter_ Cleremont, Dinant. _Din._ It holds, they will go thither. _Cler._ To their Summer-house? _Din._ Thither i'th' evening, and which is the most infliction, Only to insult upon our miseries. _Cler._ Are you provided? _Din._ Yes, yes. _Cler._ Throughly? _Din._ Throughly. _Cler._ Basta, enough, I have your mind, I will not fail you. _Din._ At such an hour. _Cler._ Have I a memory? A Cause, and Will to do? thou art so sullen-- _Din._ And shall be, till I have a fair reparation. _Cler._ I have more reason, for I scaped a fortune, Which if I come so near again: I say nothing, But if I sweat not in another fashion-- O, a delicate Wench. _Din._ 'Tis certain a most handsome one. _Cler._ And me thought the thing was angry with it self too It lay so long conceal'd, but I must part with you, I have a scene of mirth, to drive this from my heart, And my hour is come. _Din._ Miss not your time. _Cler._ I dare not. [_Exeunt severally._ _Enter_ Sampson, _and a Gentleman_. _Gent._ I presume, Sir, you now need no instruction, But fairly know, what belongs to a Gentleman; You bear your Uncles cause. _Sam._ Do not disturb me, I understand my cause, and the right carriage. _Gent._ Be not too bloody. _Sam._ As I find my enemy; if his sword bite, If it bite, Sir, you must pardon me. _Gent._ No doubt he is valiant, He durst not undertake else, _Sam._ He's most welcome, As he is most valiant, he were no man for me else. _Gent._ But say he should relent. _Sam._ He dies relenting, I cannot help it, he must di[e] relenting, If he pray, praying, _ipso facto_, praying, Your honourable way admits no prayer, And if he fight, he falls, there's his _quietus_. _Gent._ Y'are nobly punctual, let's retire and meet 'em, But still, I say, have mercy. _Samp._ I say, honour. [_Exeunt._ _Enter_ Champernel, Lamira, Anabel, Beaupre, Verdone, Charlote _and a Servant_. _Lam._ Will not you go sweet-heart? _Champ._ Go? I'le fly with thee. I stay behind? _Lam._ My Father will be there too, And all our best friends. _Beau._ And if we be not merry, We have hard luck, Lady. _Verd._ Faith let's have a kind of play. _Cham._ What shall it be? _Verd._ The story of _Dinant_. _Lam._ With the merry conceits of _Cleremont_, His Fits and Feavers. _Ana._ But I'le lie still no more. _Lam._ That, as you make the Play, 'twill be rare sport, And how 'twill vex my gallants, when they hear it! Have you given order for the Coach? _Charl._ Yes, Madam. _Cham._ My easie Nag, and padd. _Serv._ 'Tis making ready. _Champ._ Where are your Horses? _Beau._ Ready at an hour, Sir: we'll not be last. _Cham._ Fie, what a night shall we have! A roaring, merry night. _Lam._ We'll flie at all, Sir. _Cham._ I'le flie at thee too, finely, and so ruffle thee, I'le try your Art upon a Country pallet. _Lam._ Brag not too much, for fear I should expect it, Then if you fail-- _Cham._ Thou saiest too true, we all talk.

truly

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

villain, (But yet no coward) and sollicites me To my dishonour, that's indeed a quarrel, And truly mine, which I will so revenge, As it shall fright such as dare only think To be adulterers. _Cham._ Use thine own waies, I give up all to thee. _Beau._ O women, women! When you are pleas'd you are the least of evils. _Verd._ I'le rime to't, but provokt, the worst of Devils. [_Exeunt._ _Enter Monsieur_ Sampson, _and three Clients_. _Samp._ I know Monsieur _La-writ_. _1 Cly._ Would he knew himself, Sir. _Samp._ He was a pretty Lawyer, a kind of pretty Lawyer, Of a kind of unable thing. _2 Cly._ A fine Lawyer, Sir, And would have firk'd you up a business, And out of this Court into that. _Samp._ Ye are too forward Not so fine my friends, something he could have done, But short short. _1 Cly._ I know your worships favour, You are Nephew to the Judge, Sir. _Samp._ It may be so, And something may be done, without trotting i'th' dirt, friends; It may be I can take him in his Chamber, And have an hours talk, it may be so, And tell him that in's ear; there are such courtesies; I will not say, I can. _3 Cly._ We know you can, Sir. _Sam._ Peradventure I, peradventure no: but where's _La-writ_? Where's your sufficient Lawyer? _1 Cly._ He's blown up, Sir. _2 Cly._ Run mad and quarrels with the Dog he meets; He is no Lawyer of this world now. _Sam._ Your reason? Is he defunct? is he dead? _2 Cly._ No he's not dead yet, Sir; But I would be loth to take a lease on's life for two hours: Alas, he is possest Sir, with the spirit of fighting And quarrels with all people; but how he came to it-- _Samp._ If he fight well and like a Gentleman, The man may fight, for 'tis a lawfull calling. Look you my friends, I am a civil Gentleman, And my Lord my Uncle loves me. _3 Cly._ We all know it, Sir. _Sam._ I think he does, Sir, I have business too, much business, Turn you some forty or fifty Causes in a week; Yet when I get an hour of vacancie, I can fight too my friends, a little does well, I would be loth to learn to fight. _1 Cly._ But and't please you Sir, His fighting has neglected all our business, We are undone, our causes cast away, Sir, His not appearance. _Sam._ There he fought too long, A little and fight well, he fought too long indeed friends; But ne'r the less things must be as they may, And there be wayes-- _1 Cly._ We know, Sir, if you please-- _Sam._ Something I'le do: goe rally up your Causes. _Enter_ La-writ, _and a_ Gentleman, _at the door_. _2 Cly._ Now you may behold Sir, And be a witness, whether we lie or no. _La-writ._ I'le meet you at the Ordinary, sweet Gentlemen, And if there be a wench or two-- _Gen._ We'll have 'em. _La-writ._ No handling any Duells before I come, We'll have no going else, I hate a coward. _Gent._ There shall be nothing done. _La-writ._ Make all the quarrels You can devise before I come, and let's all fight, There is no sport else. _Gent._ We'll see what may be done, Sir. _1 Cly._ Ha? Monsieur _La-writ_. _La-writ._ Baffled in way of business, My causes cast away, Judgement against us? Why there it goes. _2 Cly._ What shall we do the whilst Sir? _La-wr._ Breed new dissentions, goe hang your selves 'Tis all one to me; I have a new trade of living. _1 Cli._ Do you hear what he saies Sir? _Sam._ The Gentleman speaks finely. _La-wr._ Will any of you fight? Fighting's my occupation If you find your selves aggriev'd. _Sam._ A compleat Gentleman. _La-writ._ Avant thou buckram budget of petitions, Thou spittle of lame causes; I lament for thee, And till revenge be taken-- _Sam._ 'Tis most excellent. _La-wr._ There, every man chuse his paper, and his place. I'le answer ye all, I will neglect no mans business But he shall have satisfaction like a Gentleman, The Judge may do and not do, he's but a Monsieur. _Sam._ You have nothing of mine in your bag, Sir. _La-writ._ I know not Sir, But you may put any thing in, any fighting thing. _Sam._ It is sufficient, you may hear hereafter. _La-writ._ I rest your servant Sir. _Sam._ No more words Gentlemen But follow me, no more words as you love me, The Gentleman's a noble Gentleman. I shall do what I can, and then-- _Cli._ We thank you Sir. [_Ex._ Sam. _and_ Clients. _Sam._ Not a word to disturb him, he's a Gentleman. _La-writ._ No cause go o' my side? the judge cast all? And because I was honourably employed in action, And not appear'd, pronounce? 'tis very well, 'Tis well faith, 'tis well, Judge. _Enter_ Cleremont. _Cler._ Who have we here? My little furious Lawyer? _La-writ._ I say 'tis well, But mark the end. _Cler._ How he is metamorphos'd! Nothing of Lawyer left, not a bit of buckram, No solliciting face now, This is no simple conversion. Your servant Sir, and Friend. _La-writ._ You come in time, Sir, _Cler._ The happier man, to be at your command then. _La-writ._ You may wonder to see me thus; but that's all one, Time shall declare; 'tis true I was a Lawyer, But I have mew'd that coat, I hate a Lawyer, I talk'd much in the Court, now I hate talking, I did you the office of a man. _Cler._ I must confess it. _La-w._ And budg'd not, no I budg'd not. _Cler._ No, you did not. _La-w._ There's it then, one good turn requires another. _Cler._ Most willing Sir, I am ready at your service. _La-w._ There, read, and understand, and then deliver it. _Cler._ This is a Challenge, Sir, _La-w._ 'Tis very like, Sir, I seldom now write Sonnets. _Cler._ _O admirantis_, To Monsieur _Vertaign_, the President. _La-w._ I chuse no Fool, Sir. _Cler._ Why, he's no Sword-man, Sir. _La-w._ Let him learn, let him learn, Time, that trains Chickens up, will teach him quickly. _Cler._ Why, he's a Judge, an Old Man. _La-w._ Never too Old To be a Gentleman; and he that is a Judge Can judge best what belongs to wounded honour. There are my griefs, he has cast away my causes, In which he has bowed my reputation. And therefore Judge, or no Judge. _Cler._ 'Pray be rul'd Sir, This is the maddest thing-- _La-w._ You will not carry it. _Cler._ I do not tell you so, but if you may be perswaded. _La-w._ You know how you us'd me when I would not fight, Do you remember, Gentleman? _Cler._ The Devil's in him. _La-w._ I see it in your Eyes, that you dare do it, You have a carrying face, and you shall carry it. _Cler._ The least is Banishment. _La-w._ Be banish'd then; 'Tis a friends part, we'll meet in _Africa_, Or any part of the Earth. _Cler._ Say he will not fight. _La-w._ I know then what to say, take you no care, Sir, _Cler._ Well, I will carry it, and deliver it, And to morrow morning meet you in the Louver, Till when, my service. _La-w._ A Judge, or no Judge, no Judge. [_Exit_ La-writ. _Cler._ This is the prettiest Rogue that e'r I read of, None to provoke to th' field, but the old President; What face shall I put on? if I come in earnest, I am sure to wear a pair of Bracelets; This may make some sport yet, I will deliver it, Here comes the President. _Enter_ Vertaign, _with two Gentlemen_. _Vert._ I shall find time, Gentlemen, To do your causes good, is not that _Cleremont_? _1 Gent._ 'Tis he my Lord. _Vert._ Why does he smile upon me? Am I become ridiculous? has your fortune, Sir, Upon my Son, made you contemn his Father? The glory of a Gentleman is fair bearing. _Cler._ Mistake me not my Lord, you shall not find that, I come with no blown Spirit to abuse you, I know your place and honour due unto it, The reverence to your silver Age and Vertue. _Vert._ Your face is merry still. _Cler._ So is my business, And I beseech your honour mistake me not, I have brought you from a wild or rather Mad-man As mad a piece of--you were wont to love mirth In your young days, I have known your Honour woo it, This may be made no little one, 'tis a Challenge, Sir, Nay, start not, I beseech you, it means you no harm, Nor any Man of Honour, or Understanding, 'Tis to steal from your serious hours a little laughter; I am bold to bring it to your Lordship. _Vert._ 'Tis to me indeed: Do they take me for a Sword-man at these years? _Cler._ 'Tis only worth your Honours Mirth, that's all Sir, 'Thad been in me else a sawcy rudeness. _Vert._ From one _La-writ_, a very punctual Challenge. _Cler._ But if your Lordship mark it, no great matter. _Vert._ I have known such a wrangling Advocate, Such a little figent thing; Oh I remember him, A notable talking Knave, now out upon him, Has challeng'd me downright, defied me mortally I do remember too, I cast his Causes. _Cler._ Why, there's the quarrel, Sir, the mortal quarrel. _Vert._ Why, what a Knave is this? as y'are a Gentleman, Is there no further purpose but meer mirth? What a bold Man of War! he invites me roundly. _Cler._ If there should be, I were no Gentleman, Nor worthy of the honour of my Kindred. And though I am sure your Lordship hates my Person, Which Time may bring again into your favour, Yet for the manners-- _Vert._ I am satisfied, You see, Sir, I have out-liv'd those days of fighting, And therefore cannot do him the honour to beat him my self; But I have a Kinsman much of his ability, His Wit and Courage, for this call him Fool, One that will spit as senseless fire as this Fellow. _Cler._ And such a man to undertake, my Lord? _Vert._ Nay he's too forward; these two pitch Barrels together. _Cler._ Upon my soul, no harm. _Vert._ It makes me smile, Why, what a stinking smother will they utter! Yes, he shall undertake, Sir, as my Champion, Since you propound it mirth, I'll venture on it, And shall defend my cause, but as y'are honest Sport not with bloud. _Cler._ Think not so basely, good Sir. _Vert._ A Squire shall wait upon you from my Kinsman, To morrow morning make you sport at full, You want no Subject; but no wounds. _Cler._ That's my care. _Ver._ And so good day. [_Ex._ Vertaign, _and Gentlemen_. _Cler._ Many unto your honour. This is a noble Fellow, of a sweet Spirit, Now must I think how to contrive this matter, For together they shall go. _Enter_ Dinant. _Din._ O _Cleremont_, I am glad I have found thee. _Cler._ I can tell thee rare things. _Din._ O, I can tell thee rarer, Dost thou love me? _Cler._ Love thee? _Din._ Dost thou love me dearly? Dar'st thou for my sake? _Cler._ Any thing that's honest. _Din._ Though it be dangerous? _Cler._ Pox o' dangerous. _Din._ Nay wondrous dangerous. _Cler._ Wilt thou break my heart? _Din._ Along with me then. _Cler._ I must part to morrow. _Din._ You shall, you shall, be faithful for this night, And thou hast made thy friend. _Cler._ Away, and talk not. [_Exeunt._ _Enter_ Lamira, _and Nurse_. _Lam._ O Nurse, welcome, where's _Dinant_? _Nurse._ He's at my back. 'Tis the most liberal Gentleman, this Gold He gave me for my pains, nor can I blame you, If you yield up the fort. _Lam._ How? yield it up? _Nurse._ I know not, he that loves, and gives so largely, And a young Lord to boot, or I am cozen'd, May enter every where. _Lam._ Thou'lt make me angry. _Enter_ Dinant, _and_ Cleremont. _Nur._ Why, if you are, I hope here's one will please you, Look on him with my Eyes, good luck go with you: Were I young for your sake-- _Din._ I thank thee, Nurse. _Nur._ I would be tractable, and as I am-- _Lam._ Leave the room, So old, and so immodest! and be careful, Since whispers will 'wake sleeping jealousies, That none disturb my Lord. [_Exit Nurse._ _Cler._ Will you dispatch? Till you come to the matter be not rapt thus, Walk in, walk in, I am your scout for once, You owe me the like service. _Din._ And will pay it. _Lam._ As you respect our lives, speak not so loud. _Cler._ Why, do it in dumb shew then, I am silenc'd. _Lam._ Be not so hasty, Sir, the golden Apples Had a fell Dragon for their Guard, your pleasures Are to be attempted with _Herculean_ danger, Or never to be gotten. _Din._ Speak the means. _Lam._ Thus briefly, my Lord sleeps now, and alas, Each Night, he only sleeps. _Cler._ Go, keep her stirring. _Lam._ Now if he 'wake, as sometimes he does, He only stretches out his hand and feels, Whether I am a bed, which being assur'd of, He sleeps again; but should he miss me, Valour Could not defend our lives. _Din._ What's to be done then? _Lam._ Servants have servile faiths, nor have I any That I dare trust; on noble _Cleremont_ We safely may rely. _Cler._ What man can do, Command and boldly. _Lam._ Thus then in my place, You must lye with my Lord. _Cler._ With an old man? Two Beards together, that's preposterous. _Lam._ There is no other way, and though 'tis dangerous, He having servants within call, and arm'd too, Slaves fed to act all that his jealousie And rage commands them, yet a true friend should not Check at the hazard of a life. _Cler._ I thank you, I love my friend, but know no reason why To hate my self; to be a kind of pander, You see I am willing, But to betray mine own throat you must pardon. _Din._ Then I am lost, and all my hopes defeated, Were I to hazard ten times more for you, You should find, _Cleremont_-- _Cler._ You shall not outdo me, Fall what may fall, I'll do't. _Din._ But for his Beard-- _Lam._ To cover that you shall have my night Linnen, And you dispos'd of, my _Dinant_ and I Will have some private conference. _Enter_ Champernel, _privately_. _Cler._ Private doing, Or I'll not venture. _Lam._ That's as we agree. [_Exeunt._ _Enter Nurse, and_ Charlotte, _pass over the Stage with Pillows, Night cloaths, and such things_. _Cham._ What can this Woman do, preserving her honour? I have given her all the liberty that may be, I will not be far off though, nor I will not be jealous, Nor trust too much, I think she is vertuous, Yet when I hold her best, she's but a Woman, As full of frailty as of faith, a poor sleight Woman, And her best thoughts, but weak fortifications, There may be a Mine wrought: Well, let 'em work then, I shall meet with it, till the signs be monstrous, And stick upon my head, I will not believe it, [_Stands private._ She may be, and she may not, now to my observation. _Enter_ Dinant, _and_ Lamira. _Din._ Why do you make me stay so? if you love me-- _Lam._ You are too hot and violent. _Din._ Why do you shift thus From one Chamber to another? _Lam._ A little delay, Sir, Like fire, a little sprinkled o'r with water Makes the desires burn clear, and ten times hotter. _Din._ Why do you speak so loud? I pray'e go in, Sweet Mistriss, I am mad, time steals away, And when we would enjoy-- _Lam._ Now fie, fie, Servant, Like sensual Beasts shall we enjoy our pleasures? _Din._ 'Pray do not kiss me then. _Lam._ Why, that I will, and you shall find anon, servant. _Din._ Softly, for heavens sake, you know my friend's engag'd, A little now, now; will ye go in again? _Lam._ Ha, ha, ha, ha. _Din._ Why do you laugh so loud, Precious? Will you betray me; ha' my friends throat cut? _Lam._ Come, come, I'll kiss thee again. _Cham._ Will you so? you are liberal, If you do cozen me-- _Enter Nurse with Wine._ _Din._ What's this? _Lam._ Wine, Wine, a draught or two. _Din._ What does this Woman here? _Lam._ She shall not hinder you. _Din._ This might have been spar'd, 'Tis but delay and time lost; pray send her softly off. _Lam._ Sit down, and mix your spirits with Wine, I will make you another _Hercules_. _Din._ I dare not drink; Fie, what delays you make! I dare not, I shall be drunk presently, and do strange things then. _Lam._ Not drink a cup with your Mistriss! O the pleasure. _Din._ Lady, why this? [_Musick._ _Lam._ We must have mirth to our Wine, Man. _Din._ Pl---- o' the Musick. _Champ._ God-a-mercy Wench, If thou dost cuckold me I shall forgive thee. _Din._ The house will all rise now, this will disturb all. Did you do this? _Lam._ Peace, and sit quiet, fool, You love me, come, sit down and drink. _Enter_ Cleremont _above_. _Cler._ What a Devil ail you? How cold I sweat! a hogs pox stop your pipes, [_Musick._ The thing will 'wake; now, now, methinks I find His Sword just gliding through my throat. What's that? A vengeance choak your pipes. Are you there, Lady? Stop, stop those Rascals; do you bring me hither To be cut into minced meat? why _Dinant_? _Din._ I cannot do withal; I have spoke, and spoke; I am betray'd and lost too. _Cler._ Do you hear me? do you understand me? 'Plague dam your Whistles. [_Musick ends._ _Lam._ 'Twas but an over-sight, they have done, lye down. _Cler._ Would you had done too, You know not In what a misery and fear I lye. You have a Lady in your arms. _Din._ I would have-- [_The Recorders again._ _Champ._ I'll watch you Goodman Wou'd have. _Cler._ Remove for Heavens sake, And fall to that you come for. _Lam._ Lie you down, 'Tis but an hours endurance now. _Cler._ I dare not, softly sweet Lady ----heart? _Lam._ 'Tis nothing but your fear, he sleeps still soundly, Lie gently down. _Cler._ 'Pray make an end. _Din._ Come, Madam. _Lam._ These Chambers are too near. [_Ex._ Din. Lam. _Cham._ I shall be nearer; Well, go thy wayes, I'le trust thee through the world, Deal how thou wilt: that that I never feel, I'le never fear. Yet by the honour of a Souldier, I hold thee truly noble: How these things will look, And how their blood will curdle! Play on Children, You shall have pap anon. O thou grand Fool, That thou knew'st but thy fortune-- [_Musick done._ _Cler._ Peace, good Madam, Stop her mouth, _Dinant_, it sleeps yet, 'pray be wary, Dispatch, I cannot endure this misery, I can hear nothing more; I'll say my prayers, And down again-- [_Whistle within._ A thousand Alarms fall upon my quarters, Heaven send me off; when I lye keeping Courses. Pl---- o' your fumbling, _Dinant_; how I shake! 'Tis still again: would I were in the _Indies_. [_Exit_ Cler. _Enter_ Dinant, _and_ Lamira: _a light within_. _Din._ Why do you use me thus? thus poorly? basely? Work me into a hope, and then destroy me? Why did you send for me? this new way train me? _Lam._ Mad-man, and fool, and false man, now I'll shew thee. _Din._ 'Pray put your light out. _Lam._ Nay I'll hold it thus, That all chaste Eyes may see thy lust, and scorn it. Tell me but this when you first doted on me, And made suit to enjoy me as your Wife, Did you not hold me honest? _Din._ Yes, most vertuous. _Lam._ And did not that appear the only lustre That made me worth your love and admiration? _Din._ I must confess-- _Lam._ Why would you deal so basely? So like a thief, a Villain? _Din._ Peace, good Madam. _Lam._ I'll speak aloud too; thus maliciously, Thus breaking all the Rules of honesty, Of honour and of truth, for which I lov'd you, For which I call'd you servant, and admir'd you; To steal that Jewel purchas'd by another, Piously set in Wedlock, even that Jewel, Because it had no flaw, you held unvaluable: Can he that has lov'd good, dote on the Devil? For he that seeks a Whore, seeks but his Agent; Or am I of so wild and low a blood? So nurs'd in infamies? _Din._ I do not think so, And I repent. _Lam._ That will not serve your turn, Sir. _Din._ It was your treaty drew me on. _Lam._ But it was your villany Made you pursue it; I drew you but to try How much a man, and nobly thou durst stand, How well you had deserv'd the name of vertuous; But you like a wild torrent, mix'd with all Beastly and base affections came floating on, Swelling your poyson'd billows-- _Din._ Will you betray me? _Lam._ To all the miseries a vext Woman may. _Din._ Let me but out, Give me but room to toss my Sword about me, And I will tell you y'are a treacherous woman, O that I had but words! _Lam._ They will not serve you. _Din._ But two-edg'd words to cut thee; a Lady traytor? Perish by a proud Puppet? I did you too much honour, To tender you my love, too much respected you To think you worthy of my worst embraces. Go take your Groom, and let him dally with you, Your greasie Groom; I scorn to imp your lame stock, You are not fair, nor handsome, I lyed loudly, This tongue abus'd you when it spoke you beauteous. _Lam._ 'Tis very well, 'tis brave. _Din._ Put out your light, Your lascivious eyes are flames enough For Fools to find you out; a Lady Plotter! Must I begin your sacrifice of mischief? I and my friend, the first-fruits of that bloud, You and your honourable Husband aim at? Crooked and wretched you are both. _Lam._ To you, Sir, Yet to the Eye of Justice straight as Truth. _Din._ Is this a womans love? a womans mercy? Do you profess this seriously? do you laugh at me? _Lam._ Ha, ha. _Din._ Pl---- light upon your scorns, upon your flatteries, Upon your tempting faces, all destructions; A bedrid winter hang upon your cheeks, And blast, blast, blast those buds of Pride that paint you; Death in your eyes to fright men from these dangers: Raise up your trophy, _Cleremont_. _Cler._ What a vengeance ail you? _Din._ What dismal noise! is there no honour in you? _Cleremont_, we are betrayed, betrayed, sold by a woman; Deal bravely for thy self. _Cler._ This comes of rutting; Are we made stales to one another? _Din._ Yes, we are undone, lost. _Cler._ You shall pay for't grey-beard. Up, up, you sleep your last else. {_Lights above, two Servants {and_ Anabel. _1 Serv._ No, not yet, Sir, Lady, look up, would you have wrong'd this Beauty? Wake so tender a Virgin with rough terms? You wear a Sword, we must entreat you leave it. _2 Serv._ Fye Sir, so sweet a Lady? _Cler._ Was this my bed-fellow, pray give me leave to look, I am not mad yet, I may be by and by. Did this lye by me? Did I fear this? is this a Cause to shake at? Away with me for shame, I am a Rascal. _Enter_ Champernel, Beaupre, Verdone, Lamira, Anabel, Cleremont, _and two Servants_. _Din._ I am amaz'd too. _Beaup._ We'll recover you. _Verd._ You walk like _Robin-good-fellow_ all the house over, And every man afraid of you. _Din._ 'Tis well, Lady; The honour of this deed will be your own, The world shall know your bounty. _Beaup._ What shall we do with 'em? _Cler._ Geld me, For 'tis not fit I should be a man again, I am an Ass, a Dog. _Lam._ Take your revenges, You know my Husbands wrongs and your own losses. _Anab._ A brave man, an admirable brave man; Well, well, I would not be so tryed again; A very handsome proper Gentleman. _Cler._ Will you let me lye by her but one hour more, And then hang me? _Din._ We wait your malice, put your swords home bravely, You have reason to seek bloud. _Lam._ Not as you are noble. _Cham._ Hands off, and give them liberty, only disarm 'em. _Beaup._ We have done that already. _Cham._ You are welcome, Gentlemen, I am glad my house has any pleasure for you, I keep a couple of Ladies here, they say fair, And you are young and handsome, Gentlemen; Have you any more mind to Wenches? _Cler._ To be abus'd too? Lady, you might have help'd this. _Ana._ Sir now 'tis past, but 't may be I may stand Your friend hereafter, in a greater matter. _Cler._ Never whilst you live. _Ana._ You cannot tell--now, Sir, a parting hand. _Cler._ Down and Roses: Well I may live to see you again. A dull Rogue, No revelation in thee. _Lam._ Were you well frighted? Were your fitts from the heart, of all colds and colours? That's all your punishment. _Cler._ It might have been all yours, Had not a block-head undertaken it. _Cham._ Your swords you must leave to these Gentlemen. _Verd._ And now, when you dare fight, We are on even Ice again. _Din._ 'Tis well: To be a Mistris, is to be a monster, And so I leave your house, and you for ever. _Lam._ Leave your wild lusts, and then you are a master. _Cham._ You may depart too. _Cler._ I had rather stay here. _Cham._ Faith we shall fright you worse. _Cler._ Not in that manner, There's five hundred Crowns, fright me but so again. _Din._ Come _Cleremont_, this is the hour of fool. _Cler._ Wiser the next shall be or we'll to School. [_Exeunt._ _Champ._ How coolly these hot gallants are departed! Faith Cousin, 'twas unconscionably done, To lye so still, and so long. _Anab._ 'Twas your pleasure, If 'twere a fault, I may hereafter mend. _Champ._ O my best Wife, Take now what course thou wilt, and lead what life. _Lam._ The more trust you commit, the more care still, Goodness and vertue shall attend my will. _Cham._ Let's laugh this night out now, and count our gains. We have our honours home, and they their pains. [_Exeunt omnes._ _Actus Quartus. Scena Prima._ _Enter_ Cleremont, Dinant. _Din._ It holds, they will go thither. _Cler._ To their Summer-house? _Din._ Thither i'th' evening, and which is the most infliction, Only to insult upon our miseries. _Cler._ Are you provided? _Din._ Yes, yes. _Cler._ Throughly? _Din._ Throughly. _Cler._ Basta, enough, I have your mind, I will not fail you. _Din._ At such an hour. _Cler._ Have I a memory? A Cause, and Will to do? thou art so sullen-- _Din._ And shall be, till I have a fair reparation. _Cler._ I have more reason, for I scaped a fortune, Which if I come so near again: I say nothing, But if I sweat not in another fashion-- O, a delicate Wench. _Din._ 'Tis certain a most handsome one. _Cler._ And me thought the thing was angry with it self too It lay so long conceal'd, but I must part with you, I have a scene of mirth, to drive this from my heart, And my hour is come. _Din._ Miss not your time. _Cler._ I dare not. [_Exeunt severally._ _Enter_ Sampson, _and a Gentleman_. _Gent._ I presume, Sir, you now need no instruction, But fairly know, what belongs to a Gentleman; You bear your Uncles cause. _Sam._ Do not disturb me, I understand my cause, and the right carriage. _Gent._ Be not too bloody. _Sam._ As I find my enemy; if his sword bite, If it bite, Sir, you must pardon me. _Gent._ No doubt he is valiant, He durst not undertake else, _Sam._ He's most welcome, As he is most valiant, he were no man for me else. _Gent._ But say he should relent. _Sam._ He dies relenting, I cannot help it, he must di[e] relenting, If he pray, praying, _ipso facto_, praying, Your honourable way admits no prayer, And if he fight, he falls, there's his _quietus_. _Gent._ Y'are nobly punctual, let's retire and meet 'em, But still, I say, have mercy. _Samp._ I say, honour. [_Exeunt._ _Enter_ Champernel, Lamira, Anabel, Beaupre, Verdone, Charlote _and a Servant_. _Lam._ Will not you go sweet-heart? _Champ._ Go? I'le fly with thee. I stay behind? _Lam._ My Father will be there too, And all our best friends. _Beau._ And if we be not merry, We have hard luck, Lady. _Verd._ Faith let's have a kind of play. _Cham._ What shall it be? _Verd._ The story of _Dinant_. _Lam._ With the merry conceits of _Cleremont_, His Fits and Feavers. _Ana._ But I'le lie still no more. _Lam._ That, as you make the Play, 'twill be rare sport, And how 'twill vex my gallants, when they hear it! Have you given order for the Coach? _Charl._ Yes, Madam. _Cham._ My easie Nag, and padd. _Serv._ 'Tis making ready. _Champ._ Where are your Horses? _Beau._ Ready at an hour, Sir: we'll not be last. _Cham._ Fie, what a night shall we have! A roaring, merry night. _Lam._ We'll flie at all, Sir. _Cham._ I'le flie at thee too, finely, and so ruffle thee, I'le try your Art upon a Country pallet. _Lam._ Brag not too much, for fear I should expect it, Then if you fail-- _Cham._ Thou saiest too true, we all talk.

service

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

villain, (But yet no coward) and sollicites me To my dishonour, that's indeed a quarrel, And truly mine, which I will so revenge, As it shall fright such as dare only think To be adulterers. _Cham._ Use thine own waies, I give up all to thee. _Beau._ O women, women! When you are pleas'd you are the least of evils. _Verd._ I'le rime to't, but provokt, the worst of Devils. [_Exeunt._ _Enter Monsieur_ Sampson, _and three Clients_. _Samp._ I know Monsieur _La-writ_. _1 Cly._ Would he knew himself, Sir. _Samp._ He was a pretty Lawyer, a kind of pretty Lawyer, Of a kind of unable thing. _2 Cly._ A fine Lawyer, Sir, And would have firk'd you up a business, And out of this Court into that. _Samp._ Ye are too forward Not so fine my friends, something he could have done, But short short. _1 Cly._ I know your worships favour, You are Nephew to the Judge, Sir. _Samp._ It may be so, And something may be done, without trotting i'th' dirt, friends; It may be I can take him in his Chamber, And have an hours talk, it may be so, And tell him that in's ear; there are such courtesies; I will not say, I can. _3 Cly._ We know you can, Sir. _Sam._ Peradventure I, peradventure no: but where's _La-writ_? Where's your sufficient Lawyer? _1 Cly._ He's blown up, Sir. _2 Cly._ Run mad and quarrels with the Dog he meets; He is no Lawyer of this world now. _Sam._ Your reason? Is he defunct? is he dead? _2 Cly._ No he's not dead yet, Sir; But I would be loth to take a lease on's life for two hours: Alas, he is possest Sir, with the spirit of fighting And quarrels with all people; but how he came to it-- _Samp._ If he fight well and like a Gentleman, The man may fight, for 'tis a lawfull calling. Look you my friends, I am a civil Gentleman, And my Lord my Uncle loves me. _3 Cly._ We all know it, Sir. _Sam._ I think he does, Sir, I have business too, much business, Turn you some forty or fifty Causes in a week; Yet when I get an hour of vacancie, I can fight too my friends, a little does well, I would be loth to learn to fight. _1 Cly._ But and't please you Sir, His fighting has neglected all our business, We are undone, our causes cast away, Sir, His not appearance. _Sam._ There he fought too long, A little and fight well, he fought too long indeed friends; But ne'r the less things must be as they may, And there be wayes-- _1 Cly._ We know, Sir, if you please-- _Sam._ Something I'le do: goe rally up your Causes. _Enter_ La-writ, _and a_ Gentleman, _at the door_. _2 Cly._ Now you may behold Sir, And be a witness, whether we lie or no. _La-writ._ I'le meet you at the Ordinary, sweet Gentlemen, And if there be a wench or two-- _Gen._ We'll have 'em. _La-writ._ No handling any Duells before I come, We'll have no going else, I hate a coward. _Gent._ There shall be nothing done. _La-writ._ Make all the quarrels You can devise before I come, and let's all fight, There is no sport else. _Gent._ We'll see what may be done, Sir. _1 Cly._ Ha? Monsieur _La-writ_. _La-writ._ Baffled in way of business, My causes cast away, Judgement against us? Why there it goes. _2 Cly._ What shall we do the whilst Sir? _La-wr._ Breed new dissentions, goe hang your selves 'Tis all one to me; I have a new trade of living. _1 Cli._ Do you hear what he saies Sir? _Sam._ The Gentleman speaks finely. _La-wr._ Will any of you fight? Fighting's my occupation If you find your selves aggriev'd. _Sam._ A compleat Gentleman. _La-writ._ Avant thou buckram budget of petitions, Thou spittle of lame causes; I lament for thee, And till revenge be taken-- _Sam._ 'Tis most excellent. _La-wr._ There, every man chuse his paper, and his place. I'le answer ye all, I will neglect no mans business But he shall have satisfaction like a Gentleman, The Judge may do and not do, he's but a Monsieur. _Sam._ You have nothing of mine in your bag, Sir. _La-writ._ I know not Sir, But you may put any thing in, any fighting thing. _Sam._ It is sufficient, you may hear hereafter. _La-writ._ I rest your servant Sir. _Sam._ No more words Gentlemen But follow me, no more words as you love me, The Gentleman's a noble Gentleman. I shall do what I can, and then-- _Cli._ We thank you Sir. [_Ex._ Sam. _and_ Clients. _Sam._ Not a word to disturb him, he's a Gentleman. _La-writ._ No cause go o' my side? the judge cast all? And because I was honourably employed in action, And not appear'd, pronounce? 'tis very well, 'Tis well faith, 'tis well, Judge. _Enter_ Cleremont. _Cler._ Who have we here? My little furious Lawyer? _La-writ._ I say 'tis well, But mark the end. _Cler._ How he is metamorphos'd! Nothing of Lawyer left, not a bit of buckram, No solliciting face now, This is no simple conversion. Your servant Sir, and Friend. _La-writ._ You come in time, Sir, _Cler._ The happier man, to be at your command then. _La-writ._ You may wonder to see me thus; but that's all one, Time shall declare; 'tis true I was a Lawyer, But I have mew'd that coat, I hate a Lawyer, I talk'd much in the Court, now I hate talking, I did you the office of a man. _Cler._ I must confess it. _La-w._ And budg'd not, no I budg'd not. _Cler._ No, you did not. _La-w._ There's it then, one good turn requires another. _Cler._ Most willing Sir, I am ready at your service. _La-w._ There, read, and understand, and then deliver it. _Cler._ This is a Challenge, Sir, _La-w._ 'Tis very like, Sir, I seldom now write Sonnets. _Cler._ _O admirantis_, To Monsieur _Vertaign_, the President. _La-w._ I chuse no Fool, Sir. _Cler._ Why, he's no Sword-man, Sir. _La-w._ Let him learn, let him learn, Time, that trains Chickens up, will teach him quickly. _Cler._ Why, he's a Judge, an Old Man. _La-w._ Never too Old To be a Gentleman; and he that is a Judge Can judge best what belongs to wounded honour. There are my griefs, he has cast away my causes, In which he has bowed my reputation. And therefore Judge, or no Judge. _Cler._ 'Pray be rul'd Sir, This is the maddest thing-- _La-w._ You will not carry it. _Cler._ I do not tell you so, but if you may be perswaded. _La-w._ You know how you us'd me when I would not fight, Do you remember, Gentleman? _Cler._ The Devil's in him. _La-w._ I see it in your Eyes, that you dare do it, You have a carrying face, and you shall carry it. _Cler._ The least is Banishment. _La-w._ Be banish'd then; 'Tis a friends part, we'll meet in _Africa_, Or any part of the Earth. _Cler._ Say he will not fight. _La-w._ I know then what to say, take you no care, Sir, _Cler._ Well, I will carry it, and deliver it, And to morrow morning meet you in the Louver, Till when, my service. _La-w._ A Judge, or no Judge, no Judge. [_Exit_ La-writ. _Cler._ This is the prettiest Rogue that e'r I read of, None to provoke to th' field, but the old President; What face shall I put on? if I come in earnest, I am sure to wear a pair of Bracelets; This may make some sport yet, I will deliver it, Here comes the President. _Enter_ Vertaign, _with two Gentlemen_. _Vert._ I shall find time, Gentlemen, To do your causes good, is not that _Cleremont_? _1 Gent._ 'Tis he my Lord. _Vert._ Why does he smile upon me? Am I become ridiculous? has your fortune, Sir, Upon my Son, made you contemn his Father? The glory of a Gentleman is fair bearing. _Cler._ Mistake me not my Lord, you shall not find that, I come with no blown Spirit to abuse you, I know your place and honour due unto it, The reverence to your silver Age and Vertue. _Vert._ Your face is merry still. _Cler._ So is my business, And I beseech your honour mistake me not, I have brought you from a wild or rather Mad-man As mad a piece of--you were wont to love mirth In your young days, I have known your Honour woo it, This may be made no little one, 'tis a Challenge, Sir, Nay, start not, I beseech you, it means you no harm, Nor any Man of Honour, or Understanding, 'Tis to steal from your serious hours a little laughter; I am bold to bring it to your Lordship. _Vert._ 'Tis to me indeed: Do they take me for a Sword-man at these years? _Cler._ 'Tis only worth your Honours Mirth, that's all Sir, 'Thad been in me else a sawcy rudeness. _Vert._ From one _La-writ_, a very punctual Challenge. _Cler._ But if your Lordship mark it, no great matter. _Vert._ I have known such a wrangling Advocate, Such a little figent thing; Oh I remember him, A notable talking Knave, now out upon him, Has challeng'd me downright, defied me mortally I do remember too, I cast his Causes. _Cler._ Why, there's the quarrel, Sir, the mortal quarrel. _Vert._ Why, what a Knave is this? as y'are a Gentleman, Is there no further purpose but meer mirth? What a bold Man of War! he invites me roundly. _Cler._ If there should be, I were no Gentleman, Nor worthy of the honour of my Kindred. And though I am sure your Lordship hates my Person, Which Time may bring again into your favour, Yet for the manners-- _Vert._ I am satisfied, You see, Sir, I have out-liv'd those days of fighting, And therefore cannot do him the honour to beat him my self; But I have a Kinsman much of his ability, His Wit and Courage, for this call him Fool, One that will spit as senseless fire as this Fellow. _Cler._ And such a man to undertake, my Lord? _Vert._ Nay he's too forward; these two pitch Barrels together. _Cler._ Upon my soul, no harm. _Vert._ It makes me smile, Why, what a stinking smother will they utter! Yes, he shall undertake, Sir, as my Champion, Since you propound it mirth, I'll venture on it, And shall defend my cause, but as y'are honest Sport not with bloud. _Cler._ Think not so basely, good Sir. _Vert._ A Squire shall wait upon you from my Kinsman, To morrow morning make you sport at full, You want no Subject; but no wounds. _Cler._ That's my care. _Ver._ And so good day. [_Ex._ Vertaign, _and Gentlemen_. _Cler._ Many unto your honour. This is a noble Fellow, of a sweet Spirit, Now must I think how to contrive this matter, For together they shall go. _Enter_ Dinant. _Din._ O _Cleremont_, I am glad I have found thee. _Cler._ I can tell thee rare things. _Din._ O, I can tell thee rarer, Dost thou love me? _Cler._ Love thee? _Din._ Dost thou love me dearly? Dar'st thou for my sake? _Cler._ Any thing that's honest. _Din._ Though it be dangerous? _Cler._ Pox o' dangerous. _Din._ Nay wondrous dangerous. _Cler._ Wilt thou break my heart? _Din._ Along with me then. _Cler._ I must part to morrow. _Din._ You shall, you shall, be faithful for this night, And thou hast made thy friend. _Cler._ Away, and talk not. [_Exeunt._ _Enter_ Lamira, _and Nurse_. _Lam._ O Nurse, welcome, where's _Dinant_? _Nurse._ He's at my back. 'Tis the most liberal Gentleman, this Gold He gave me for my pains, nor can I blame you, If you yield up the fort. _Lam._ How? yield it up? _Nurse._ I know not, he that loves, and gives so largely, And a young Lord to boot, or I am cozen'd, May enter every where. _Lam._ Thou'lt make me angry. _Enter_ Dinant, _and_ Cleremont. _Nur._ Why, if you are, I hope here's one will please you, Look on him with my Eyes, good luck go with you: Were I young for your sake-- _Din._ I thank thee, Nurse. _Nur._ I would be tractable, and as I am-- _Lam._ Leave the room, So old, and so immodest! and be careful, Since whispers will 'wake sleeping jealousies, That none disturb my Lord. [_Exit Nurse._ _Cler._ Will you dispatch? Till you come to the matter be not rapt thus, Walk in, walk in, I am your scout for once, You owe me the like service. _Din._ And will pay it. _Lam._ As you respect our lives, speak not so loud. _Cler._ Why, do it in dumb shew then, I am silenc'd. _Lam._ Be not so hasty, Sir, the golden Apples Had a fell Dragon for their Guard, your pleasures Are to be attempted with _Herculean_ danger, Or never to be gotten. _Din._ Speak the means. _Lam._ Thus briefly, my Lord sleeps now, and alas, Each Night, he only sleeps. _Cler._ Go, keep her stirring. _Lam._ Now if he 'wake, as sometimes he does, He only stretches out his hand and feels, Whether I am a bed, which being assur'd of, He sleeps again; but should he miss me, Valour Could not defend our lives. _Din._ What's to be done then? _Lam._ Servants have servile faiths, nor have I any That I dare trust; on noble _Cleremont_ We safely may rely. _Cler._ What man can do, Command and boldly. _Lam._ Thus then in my place, You must lye with my Lord. _Cler._ With an old man? Two Beards together, that's preposterous. _Lam._ There is no other way, and though 'tis dangerous, He having servants within call, and arm'd too, Slaves fed to act all that his jealousie And rage commands them, yet a true friend should not Check at the hazard of a life. _Cler._ I thank you, I love my friend, but know no reason why To hate my self; to be a kind of pander, You see I am willing, But to betray mine own throat you must pardon. _Din._ Then I am lost, and all my hopes defeated, Were I to hazard ten times more for you, You should find, _Cleremont_-- _Cler._ You shall not outdo me, Fall what may fall, I'll do't. _Din._ But for his Beard-- _Lam._ To cover that you shall have my night Linnen, And you dispos'd of, my _Dinant_ and I Will have some private conference. _Enter_ Champernel, _privately_. _Cler._ Private doing, Or I'll not venture. _Lam._ That's as we agree. [_Exeunt._ _Enter Nurse, and_ Charlotte, _pass over the Stage with Pillows, Night cloaths, and such things_. _Cham._ What can this Woman do, preserving her honour? I have given her all the liberty that may be, I will not be far off though, nor I will not be jealous, Nor trust too much, I think she is vertuous, Yet when I hold her best, she's but a Woman, As full of frailty as of faith, a poor sleight Woman, And her best thoughts, but weak fortifications, There may be a Mine wrought: Well, let 'em work then, I shall meet with it, till the signs be monstrous, And stick upon my head, I will not believe it, [_Stands private._ She may be, and she may not, now to my observation. _Enter_ Dinant, _and_ Lamira. _Din._ Why do you make me stay so? if you love me-- _Lam._ You are too hot and violent. _Din._ Why do you shift thus From one Chamber to another? _Lam._ A little delay, Sir, Like fire, a little sprinkled o'r with water Makes the desires burn clear, and ten times hotter. _Din._ Why do you speak so loud? I pray'e go in, Sweet Mistriss, I am mad, time steals away, And when we would enjoy-- _Lam._ Now fie, fie, Servant, Like sensual Beasts shall we enjoy our pleasures? _Din._ 'Pray do not kiss me then. _Lam._ Why, that I will, and you shall find anon, servant. _Din._ Softly, for heavens sake, you know my friend's engag'd, A little now, now; will ye go in again? _Lam._ Ha, ha, ha, ha. _Din._ Why do you laugh so loud, Precious? Will you betray me; ha' my friends throat cut? _Lam._ Come, come, I'll kiss thee again. _Cham._ Will you so? you are liberal, If you do cozen me-- _Enter Nurse with Wine._ _Din._ What's this? _Lam._ Wine, Wine, a draught or two. _Din._ What does this Woman here? _Lam._ She shall not hinder you. _Din._ This might have been spar'd, 'Tis but delay and time lost; pray send her softly off. _Lam._ Sit down, and mix your spirits with Wine, I will make you another _Hercules_. _Din._ I dare not drink; Fie, what delays you make! I dare not, I shall be drunk presently, and do strange things then. _Lam._ Not drink a cup with your Mistriss! O the pleasure. _Din._ Lady, why this? [_Musick._ _Lam._ We must have mirth to our Wine, Man. _Din._ Pl---- o' the Musick. _Champ._ God-a-mercy Wench, If thou dost cuckold me I shall forgive thee. _Din._ The house will all rise now, this will disturb all. Did you do this? _Lam._ Peace, and sit quiet, fool, You love me, come, sit down and drink. _Enter_ Cleremont _above_. _Cler._ What a Devil ail you? How cold I sweat! a hogs pox stop your pipes, [_Musick._ The thing will 'wake; now, now, methinks I find His Sword just gliding through my throat. What's that? A vengeance choak your pipes. Are you there, Lady? Stop, stop those Rascals; do you bring me hither To be cut into minced meat? why _Dinant_? _Din._ I cannot do withal; I have spoke, and spoke; I am betray'd and lost too. _Cler._ Do you hear me? do you understand me? 'Plague dam your Whistles. [_Musick ends._ _Lam._ 'Twas but an over-sight, they have done, lye down. _Cler._ Would you had done too, You know not In what a misery and fear I lye. You have a Lady in your arms. _Din._ I would have-- [_The Recorders again._ _Champ._ I'll watch you Goodman Wou'd have. _Cler._ Remove for Heavens sake, And fall to that you come for. _Lam._ Lie you down, 'Tis but an hours endurance now. _Cler._ I dare not, softly sweet Lady ----heart? _Lam._ 'Tis nothing but your fear, he sleeps still soundly, Lie gently down. _Cler._ 'Pray make an end. _Din._ Come, Madam. _Lam._ These Chambers are too near. [_Ex._ Din. Lam. _Cham._ I shall be nearer; Well, go thy wayes, I'le trust thee through the world, Deal how thou wilt: that that I never feel, I'le never fear. Yet by the honour of a Souldier, I hold thee truly noble: How these things will look, And how their blood will curdle! Play on Children, You shall have pap anon. O thou grand Fool, That thou knew'st but thy fortune-- [_Musick done._ _Cler._ Peace, good Madam, Stop her mouth, _Dinant_, it sleeps yet, 'pray be wary, Dispatch, I cannot endure this misery, I can hear nothing more; I'll say my prayers, And down again-- [_Whistle within._ A thousand Alarms fall upon my quarters, Heaven send me off; when I lye keeping Courses. Pl---- o' your fumbling, _Dinant_; how I shake! 'Tis still again: would I were in the _Indies_. [_Exit_ Cler. _Enter_ Dinant, _and_ Lamira: _a light within_. _Din._ Why do you use me thus? thus poorly? basely? Work me into a hope, and then destroy me? Why did you send for me? this new way train me? _Lam._ Mad-man, and fool, and false man, now I'll shew thee. _Din._ 'Pray put your light out. _Lam._ Nay I'll hold it thus, That all chaste Eyes may see thy lust, and scorn it. Tell me but this when you first doted on me, And made suit to enjoy me as your Wife, Did you not hold me honest? _Din._ Yes, most vertuous. _Lam._ And did not that appear the only lustre That made me worth your love and admiration? _Din._ I must confess-- _Lam._ Why would you deal so basely? So like a thief, a Villain? _Din._ Peace, good Madam. _Lam._ I'll speak aloud too; thus maliciously, Thus breaking all the Rules of honesty, Of honour and of truth, for which I lov'd you, For which I call'd you servant, and admir'd you; To steal that Jewel purchas'd by another, Piously set in Wedlock, even that Jewel, Because it had no flaw, you held unvaluable: Can he that has lov'd good, dote on the Devil? For he that seeks a Whore, seeks but his Agent; Or am I of so wild and low a blood? So nurs'd in infamies? _Din._ I do not think so, And I repent. _Lam._ That will not serve your turn, Sir. _Din._ It was your treaty drew me on. _Lam._ But it was your villany Made you pursue it; I drew you but to try How much a man, and nobly thou durst stand, How well you had deserv'd the name of vertuous; But you like a wild torrent, mix'd with all Beastly and base affections came floating on, Swelling your poyson'd billows-- _Din._ Will you betray me? _Lam._ To all the miseries a vext Woman may. _Din._ Let me but out, Give me but room to toss my Sword about me, And I will tell you y'are a treacherous woman, O that I had but words! _Lam._ They will not serve you. _Din._ But two-edg'd words to cut thee; a Lady traytor? Perish by a proud Puppet? I did you too much honour, To tender you my love, too much respected you To think you worthy of my worst embraces. Go take your Groom, and let him dally with you, Your greasie Groom; I scorn to imp your lame stock, You are not fair, nor handsome, I lyed loudly, This tongue abus'd you when it spoke you beauteous. _Lam._ 'Tis very well, 'tis brave. _Din._ Put out your light, Your lascivious eyes are flames enough For Fools to find you out; a Lady Plotter! Must I begin your sacrifice of mischief? I and my friend, the first-fruits of that bloud, You and your honourable Husband aim at? Crooked and wretched you are both. _Lam._ To you, Sir, Yet to the Eye of Justice straight as Truth. _Din._ Is this a womans love? a womans mercy? Do you profess this seriously? do you laugh at me? _Lam._ Ha, ha. _Din._ Pl---- light upon your scorns, upon your flatteries, Upon your tempting faces, all destructions; A bedrid winter hang upon your cheeks, And blast, blast, blast those buds of Pride that paint you; Death in your eyes to fright men from these dangers: Raise up your trophy, _Cleremont_. _Cler._ What a vengeance ail you? _Din._ What dismal noise! is there no honour in you? _Cleremont_, we are betrayed, betrayed, sold by a woman; Deal bravely for thy self. _Cler._ This comes of rutting; Are we made stales to one another? _Din._ Yes, we are undone, lost. _Cler._ You shall pay for't grey-beard. Up, up, you sleep your last else. {_Lights above, two Servants {and_ Anabel. _1 Serv._ No, not yet, Sir, Lady, look up, would you have wrong'd this Beauty? Wake so tender a Virgin with rough terms? You wear a Sword, we must entreat you leave it. _2 Serv._ Fye Sir, so sweet a Lady? _Cler._ Was this my bed-fellow, pray give me leave to look, I am not mad yet, I may be by and by. Did this lye by me? Did I fear this? is this a Cause to shake at? Away with me for shame, I am a Rascal. _Enter_ Champernel, Beaupre, Verdone, Lamira, Anabel, Cleremont, _and two Servants_. _Din._ I am amaz'd too. _Beaup._ We'll recover you. _Verd._ You walk like _Robin-good-fellow_ all the house over, And every man afraid of you. _Din._ 'Tis well, Lady; The honour of this deed will be your own, The world shall know your bounty. _Beaup._ What shall we do with 'em? _Cler._ Geld me, For 'tis not fit I should be a man again, I am an Ass, a Dog. _Lam._ Take your revenges, You know my Husbands wrongs and your own losses. _Anab._ A brave man, an admirable brave man; Well, well, I would not be so tryed again; A very handsome proper Gentleman. _Cler._ Will you let me lye by her but one hour more, And then hang me? _Din._ We wait your malice, put your swords home bravely, You have reason to seek bloud. _Lam._ Not as you are noble. _Cham._ Hands off, and give them liberty, only disarm 'em. _Beaup._ We have done that already. _Cham._ You are welcome, Gentlemen, I am glad my house has any pleasure for you, I keep a couple of Ladies here, they say fair, And you are young and handsome, Gentlemen; Have you any more mind to Wenches? _Cler._ To be abus'd too? Lady, you might have help'd this. _Ana._ Sir now 'tis past, but 't may be I may stand Your friend hereafter, in a greater matter. _Cler._ Never whilst you live. _Ana._ You cannot tell--now, Sir, a parting hand. _Cler._ Down and Roses: Well I may live to see you again. A dull Rogue, No revelation in thee. _Lam._ Were you well frighted? Were your fitts from the heart, of all colds and colours? That's all your punishment. _Cler._ It might have been all yours, Had not a block-head undertaken it. _Cham._ Your swords you must leave to these Gentlemen. _Verd._ And now, when you dare fight, We are on even Ice again. _Din._ 'Tis well: To be a Mistris, is to be a monster, And so I leave your house, and you for ever. _Lam._ Leave your wild lusts, and then you are a master. _Cham._ You may depart too. _Cler._ I had rather stay here. _Cham._ Faith we shall fright you worse. _Cler._ Not in that manner, There's five hundred Crowns, fright me but so again. _Din._ Come _Cleremont_, this is the hour of fool. _Cler._ Wiser the next shall be or we'll to School. [_Exeunt._ _Champ._ How coolly these hot gallants are departed! Faith Cousin, 'twas unconscionably done, To lye so still, and so long. _Anab._ 'Twas your pleasure, If 'twere a fault, I may hereafter mend. _Champ._ O my best Wife, Take now what course thou wilt, and lead what life. _Lam._ The more trust you commit, the more care still, Goodness and vertue shall attend my will. _Cham._ Let's laugh this night out now, and count our gains. We have our honours home, and they their pains. [_Exeunt omnes._ _Actus Quartus. Scena Prima._ _Enter_ Cleremont, Dinant. _Din._ It holds, they will go thither. _Cler._ To their Summer-house? _Din._ Thither i'th' evening, and which is the most infliction, Only to insult upon our miseries. _Cler._ Are you provided? _Din._ Yes, yes. _Cler._ Throughly? _Din._ Throughly. _Cler._ Basta, enough, I have your mind, I will not fail you. _Din._ At such an hour. _Cler._ Have I a memory? A Cause, and Will to do? thou art so sullen-- _Din._ And shall be, till I have a fair reparation. _Cler._ I have more reason, for I scaped a fortune, Which if I come so near again: I say nothing, But if I sweat not in another fashion-- O, a delicate Wench. _Din._ 'Tis certain a most handsome one. _Cler._ And me thought the thing was angry with it self too It lay so long conceal'd, but I must part with you, I have a scene of mirth, to drive this from my heart, And my hour is come. _Din._ Miss not your time. _Cler._ I dare not. [_Exeunt severally._ _Enter_ Sampson, _and a Gentleman_. _Gent._ I presume, Sir, you now need no instruction, But fairly know, what belongs to a Gentleman; You bear your Uncles cause. _Sam._ Do not disturb me, I understand my cause, and the right carriage. _Gent._ Be not too bloody. _Sam._ As I find my enemy; if his sword bite, If it bite, Sir, you must pardon me. _Gent._ No doubt he is valiant, He durst not undertake else, _Sam._ He's most welcome, As he is most valiant, he were no man for me else. _Gent._ But say he should relent. _Sam._ He dies relenting, I cannot help it, he must di[e] relenting, If he pray, praying, _ipso facto_, praying, Your honourable way admits no prayer, And if he fight, he falls, there's his _quietus_. _Gent._ Y'are nobly punctual, let's retire and meet 'em, But still, I say, have mercy. _Samp._ I say, honour. [_Exeunt._ _Enter_ Champernel, Lamira, Anabel, Beaupre, Verdone, Charlote _and a Servant_. _Lam._ Will not you go sweet-heart? _Champ._ Go? I'le fly with thee. I stay behind? _Lam._ My Father will be there too, And all our best friends. _Beau._ And if we be not merry, We have hard luck, Lady. _Verd._ Faith let's have a kind of play. _Cham._ What shall it be? _Verd._ The story of _Dinant_. _Lam._ With the merry conceits of _Cleremont_, His Fits and Feavers. _Ana._ But I'le lie still no more. _Lam._ That, as you make the Play, 'twill be rare sport, And how 'twill vex my gallants, when they hear it! Have you given order for the Coach? _Charl._ Yes, Madam. _Cham._ My easie Nag, and padd. _Serv._ 'Tis making ready. _Champ._ Where are your Horses? _Beau._ Ready at an hour, Sir: we'll not be last. _Cham._ Fie, what a night shall we have! A roaring, merry night. _Lam._ We'll flie at all, Sir. _Cham._ I'le flie at thee too, finely, and so ruffle thee, I'le try your Art upon a Country pallet. _Lam._ Brag not too much, for fear I should expect it, Then if you fail-- _Cham._ Thou saiest too true, we all talk.

morning

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

villain, (But yet no coward) and sollicites me To my dishonour, that's indeed a quarrel, And truly mine, which I will so revenge, As it shall fright such as dare only think To be adulterers. _Cham._ Use thine own waies, I give up all to thee. _Beau._ O women, women! When you are pleas'd you are the least of evils. _Verd._ I'le rime to't, but provokt, the worst of Devils. [_Exeunt._ _Enter Monsieur_ Sampson, _and three Clients_. _Samp._ I know Monsieur _La-writ_. _1 Cly._ Would he knew himself, Sir. _Samp._ He was a pretty Lawyer, a kind of pretty Lawyer, Of a kind of unable thing. _2 Cly._ A fine Lawyer, Sir, And would have firk'd you up a business, And out of this Court into that. _Samp._ Ye are too forward Not so fine my friends, something he could have done, But short short. _1 Cly._ I know your worships favour, You are Nephew to the Judge, Sir. _Samp._ It may be so, And something may be done, without trotting i'th' dirt, friends; It may be I can take him in his Chamber, And have an hours talk, it may be so, And tell him that in's ear; there are such courtesies; I will not say, I can. _3 Cly._ We know you can, Sir. _Sam._ Peradventure I, peradventure no: but where's _La-writ_? Where's your sufficient Lawyer? _1 Cly._ He's blown up, Sir. _2 Cly._ Run mad and quarrels with the Dog he meets; He is no Lawyer of this world now. _Sam._ Your reason? Is he defunct? is he dead? _2 Cly._ No he's not dead yet, Sir; But I would be loth to take a lease on's life for two hours: Alas, he is possest Sir, with the spirit of fighting And quarrels with all people; but how he came to it-- _Samp._ If he fight well and like a Gentleman, The man may fight, for 'tis a lawfull calling. Look you my friends, I am a civil Gentleman, And my Lord my Uncle loves me. _3 Cly._ We all know it, Sir. _Sam._ I think he does, Sir, I have business too, much business, Turn you some forty or fifty Causes in a week; Yet when I get an hour of vacancie, I can fight too my friends, a little does well, I would be loth to learn to fight. _1 Cly._ But and't please you Sir, His fighting has neglected all our business, We are undone, our causes cast away, Sir, His not appearance. _Sam._ There he fought too long, A little and fight well, he fought too long indeed friends; But ne'r the less things must be as they may, And there be wayes-- _1 Cly._ We know, Sir, if you please-- _Sam._ Something I'le do: goe rally up your Causes. _Enter_ La-writ, _and a_ Gentleman, _at the door_. _2 Cly._ Now you may behold Sir, And be a witness, whether we lie or no. _La-writ._ I'le meet you at the Ordinary, sweet Gentlemen, And if there be a wench or two-- _Gen._ We'll have 'em. _La-writ._ No handling any Duells before I come, We'll have no going else, I hate a coward. _Gent._ There shall be nothing done. _La-writ._ Make all the quarrels You can devise before I come, and let's all fight, There is no sport else. _Gent._ We'll see what may be done, Sir. _1 Cly._ Ha? Monsieur _La-writ_. _La-writ._ Baffled in way of business, My causes cast away, Judgement against us? Why there it goes. _2 Cly._ What shall we do the whilst Sir? _La-wr._ Breed new dissentions, goe hang your selves 'Tis all one to me; I have a new trade of living. _1 Cli._ Do you hear what he saies Sir? _Sam._ The Gentleman speaks finely. _La-wr._ Will any of you fight? Fighting's my occupation If you find your selves aggriev'd. _Sam._ A compleat Gentleman. _La-writ._ Avant thou buckram budget of petitions, Thou spittle of lame causes; I lament for thee, And till revenge be taken-- _Sam._ 'Tis most excellent. _La-wr._ There, every man chuse his paper, and his place. I'le answer ye all, I will neglect no mans business But he shall have satisfaction like a Gentleman, The Judge may do and not do, he's but a Monsieur. _Sam._ You have nothing of mine in your bag, Sir. _La-writ._ I know not Sir, But you may put any thing in, any fighting thing. _Sam._ It is sufficient, you may hear hereafter. _La-writ._ I rest your servant Sir. _Sam._ No more words Gentlemen But follow me, no more words as you love me, The Gentleman's a noble Gentleman. I shall do what I can, and then-- _Cli._ We thank you Sir. [_Ex._ Sam. _and_ Clients. _Sam._ Not a word to disturb him, he's a Gentleman. _La-writ._ No cause go o' my side? the judge cast all? And because I was honourably employed in action, And not appear'd, pronounce? 'tis very well, 'Tis well faith, 'tis well, Judge. _Enter_ Cleremont. _Cler._ Who have we here? My little furious Lawyer? _La-writ._ I say 'tis well, But mark the end. _Cler._ How he is metamorphos'd! Nothing of Lawyer left, not a bit of buckram, No solliciting face now, This is no simple conversion. Your servant Sir, and Friend. _La-writ._ You come in time, Sir, _Cler._ The happier man, to be at your command then. _La-writ._ You may wonder to see me thus; but that's all one, Time shall declare; 'tis true I was a Lawyer, But I have mew'd that coat, I hate a Lawyer, I talk'd much in the Court, now I hate talking, I did you the office of a man. _Cler._ I must confess it. _La-w._ And budg'd not, no I budg'd not. _Cler._ No, you did not. _La-w._ There's it then, one good turn requires another. _Cler._ Most willing Sir, I am ready at your service. _La-w._ There, read, and understand, and then deliver it. _Cler._ This is a Challenge, Sir, _La-w._ 'Tis very like, Sir, I seldom now write Sonnets. _Cler._ _O admirantis_, To Monsieur _Vertaign_, the President. _La-w._ I chuse no Fool, Sir. _Cler._ Why, he's no Sword-man, Sir. _La-w._ Let him learn, let him learn, Time, that trains Chickens up, will teach him quickly. _Cler._ Why, he's a Judge, an Old Man. _La-w._ Never too Old To be a Gentleman; and he that is a Judge Can judge best what belongs to wounded honour. There are my griefs, he has cast away my causes, In which he has bowed my reputation. And therefore Judge, or no Judge. _Cler._ 'Pray be rul'd Sir, This is the maddest thing-- _La-w._ You will not carry it. _Cler._ I do not tell you so, but if you may be perswaded. _La-w._ You know how you us'd me when I would not fight, Do you remember, Gentleman? _Cler._ The Devil's in him. _La-w._ I see it in your Eyes, that you dare do it, You have a carrying face, and you shall carry it. _Cler._ The least is Banishment. _La-w._ Be banish'd then; 'Tis a friends part, we'll meet in _Africa_, Or any part of the Earth. _Cler._ Say he will not fight. _La-w._ I know then what to say, take you no care, Sir, _Cler._ Well, I will carry it, and deliver it, And to morrow morning meet you in the Louver, Till when, my service. _La-w._ A Judge, or no Judge, no Judge. [_Exit_ La-writ. _Cler._ This is the prettiest Rogue that e'r I read of, None to provoke to th' field, but the old President; What face shall I put on? if I come in earnest, I am sure to wear a pair of Bracelets; This may make some sport yet, I will deliver it, Here comes the President. _Enter_ Vertaign, _with two Gentlemen_. _Vert._ I shall find time, Gentlemen, To do your causes good, is not that _Cleremont_? _1 Gent._ 'Tis he my Lord. _Vert._ Why does he smile upon me? Am I become ridiculous? has your fortune, Sir, Upon my Son, made you contemn his Father? The glory of a Gentleman is fair bearing. _Cler._ Mistake me not my Lord, you shall not find that, I come with no blown Spirit to abuse you, I know your place and honour due unto it, The reverence to your silver Age and Vertue. _Vert._ Your face is merry still. _Cler._ So is my business, And I beseech your honour mistake me not, I have brought you from a wild or rather Mad-man As mad a piece of--you were wont to love mirth In your young days, I have known your Honour woo it, This may be made no little one, 'tis a Challenge, Sir, Nay, start not, I beseech you, it means you no harm, Nor any Man of Honour, or Understanding, 'Tis to steal from your serious hours a little laughter; I am bold to bring it to your Lordship. _Vert._ 'Tis to me indeed: Do they take me for a Sword-man at these years? _Cler._ 'Tis only worth your Honours Mirth, that's all Sir, 'Thad been in me else a sawcy rudeness. _Vert._ From one _La-writ_, a very punctual Challenge. _Cler._ But if your Lordship mark it, no great matter. _Vert._ I have known such a wrangling Advocate, Such a little figent thing; Oh I remember him, A notable talking Knave, now out upon him, Has challeng'd me downright, defied me mortally I do remember too, I cast his Causes. _Cler._ Why, there's the quarrel, Sir, the mortal quarrel. _Vert._ Why, what a Knave is this? as y'are a Gentleman, Is there no further purpose but meer mirth? What a bold Man of War! he invites me roundly. _Cler._ If there should be, I were no Gentleman, Nor worthy of the honour of my Kindred. And though I am sure your Lordship hates my Person, Which Time may bring again into your favour, Yet for the manners-- _Vert._ I am satisfied, You see, Sir, I have out-liv'd those days of fighting, And therefore cannot do him the honour to beat him my self; But I have a Kinsman much of his ability, His Wit and Courage, for this call him Fool, One that will spit as senseless fire as this Fellow. _Cler._ And such a man to undertake, my Lord? _Vert._ Nay he's too forward; these two pitch Barrels together. _Cler._ Upon my soul, no harm. _Vert._ It makes me smile, Why, what a stinking smother will they utter! Yes, he shall undertake, Sir, as my Champion, Since you propound it mirth, I'll venture on it, And shall defend my cause, but as y'are honest Sport not with bloud. _Cler._ Think not so basely, good Sir. _Vert._ A Squire shall wait upon you from my Kinsman, To morrow morning make you sport at full, You want no Subject; but no wounds. _Cler._ That's my care. _Ver._ And so good day. [_Ex._ Vertaign, _and Gentlemen_. _Cler._ Many unto your honour. This is a noble Fellow, of a sweet Spirit, Now must I think how to contrive this matter, For together they shall go. _Enter_ Dinant. _Din._ O _Cleremont_, I am glad I have found thee. _Cler._ I can tell thee rare things. _Din._ O, I can tell thee rarer, Dost thou love me? _Cler._ Love thee? _Din._ Dost thou love me dearly? Dar'st thou for my sake? _Cler._ Any thing that's honest. _Din._ Though it be dangerous? _Cler._ Pox o' dangerous. _Din._ Nay wondrous dangerous. _Cler._ Wilt thou break my heart? _Din._ Along with me then. _Cler._ I must part to morrow. _Din._ You shall, you shall, be faithful for this night, And thou hast made thy friend. _Cler._ Away, and talk not. [_Exeunt._ _Enter_ Lamira, _and Nurse_. _Lam._ O Nurse, welcome, where's _Dinant_? _Nurse._ He's at my back. 'Tis the most liberal Gentleman, this Gold He gave me for my pains, nor can I blame you, If you yield up the fort. _Lam._ How? yield it up? _Nurse._ I know not, he that loves, and gives so largely, And a young Lord to boot, or I am cozen'd, May enter every where. _Lam._ Thou'lt make me angry. _Enter_ Dinant, _and_ Cleremont. _Nur._ Why, if you are, I hope here's one will please you, Look on him with my Eyes, good luck go with you: Were I young for your sake-- _Din._ I thank thee, Nurse. _Nur._ I would be tractable, and as I am-- _Lam._ Leave the room, So old, and so immodest! and be careful, Since whispers will 'wake sleeping jealousies, That none disturb my Lord. [_Exit Nurse._ _Cler._ Will you dispatch? Till you come to the matter be not rapt thus, Walk in, walk in, I am your scout for once, You owe me the like service. _Din._ And will pay it. _Lam._ As you respect our lives, speak not so loud. _Cler._ Why, do it in dumb shew then, I am silenc'd. _Lam._ Be not so hasty, Sir, the golden Apples Had a fell Dragon for their Guard, your pleasures Are to be attempted with _Herculean_ danger, Or never to be gotten. _Din._ Speak the means. _Lam._ Thus briefly, my Lord sleeps now, and alas, Each Night, he only sleeps. _Cler._ Go, keep her stirring. _Lam._ Now if he 'wake, as sometimes he does, He only stretches out his hand and feels, Whether I am a bed, which being assur'd of, He sleeps again; but should he miss me, Valour Could not defend our lives. _Din._ What's to be done then? _Lam._ Servants have servile faiths, nor have I any That I dare trust; on noble _Cleremont_ We safely may rely. _Cler._ What man can do, Command and boldly. _Lam._ Thus then in my place, You must lye with my Lord. _Cler._ With an old man? Two Beards together, that's preposterous. _Lam._ There is no other way, and though 'tis dangerous, He having servants within call, and arm'd too, Slaves fed to act all that his jealousie And rage commands them, yet a true friend should not Check at the hazard of a life. _Cler._ I thank you, I love my friend, but know no reason why To hate my self; to be a kind of pander, You see I am willing, But to betray mine own throat you must pardon. _Din._ Then I am lost, and all my hopes defeated, Were I to hazard ten times more for you, You should find, _Cleremont_-- _Cler._ You shall not outdo me, Fall what may fall, I'll do't. _Din._ But for his Beard-- _Lam._ To cover that you shall have my night Linnen, And you dispos'd of, my _Dinant_ and I Will have some private conference. _Enter_ Champernel, _privately_. _Cler._ Private doing, Or I'll not venture. _Lam._ That's as we agree. [_Exeunt._ _Enter Nurse, and_ Charlotte, _pass over the Stage with Pillows, Night cloaths, and such things_. _Cham._ What can this Woman do, preserving her honour? I have given her all the liberty that may be, I will not be far off though, nor I will not be jealous, Nor trust too much, I think she is vertuous, Yet when I hold her best, she's but a Woman, As full of frailty as of faith, a poor sleight Woman, And her best thoughts, but weak fortifications, There may be a Mine wrought: Well, let 'em work then, I shall meet with it, till the signs be monstrous, And stick upon my head, I will not believe it, [_Stands private._ She may be, and she may not, now to my observation. _Enter_ Dinant, _and_ Lamira. _Din._ Why do you make me stay so? if you love me-- _Lam._ You are too hot and violent. _Din._ Why do you shift thus From one Chamber to another? _Lam._ A little delay, Sir, Like fire, a little sprinkled o'r with water Makes the desires burn clear, and ten times hotter. _Din._ Why do you speak so loud? I pray'e go in, Sweet Mistriss, I am mad, time steals away, And when we would enjoy-- _Lam._ Now fie, fie, Servant, Like sensual Beasts shall we enjoy our pleasures? _Din._ 'Pray do not kiss me then. _Lam._ Why, that I will, and you shall find anon, servant. _Din._ Softly, for heavens sake, you know my friend's engag'd, A little now, now; will ye go in again? _Lam._ Ha, ha, ha, ha. _Din._ Why do you laugh so loud, Precious? Will you betray me; ha' my friends throat cut? _Lam._ Come, come, I'll kiss thee again. _Cham._ Will you so? you are liberal, If you do cozen me-- _Enter Nurse with Wine._ _Din._ What's this? _Lam._ Wine, Wine, a draught or two. _Din._ What does this Woman here? _Lam._ She shall not hinder you. _Din._ This might have been spar'd, 'Tis but delay and time lost; pray send her softly off. _Lam._ Sit down, and mix your spirits with Wine, I will make you another _Hercules_. _Din._ I dare not drink; Fie, what delays you make! I dare not, I shall be drunk presently, and do strange things then. _Lam._ Not drink a cup with your Mistriss! O the pleasure. _Din._ Lady, why this? [_Musick._ _Lam._ We must have mirth to our Wine, Man. _Din._ Pl---- o' the Musick. _Champ._ God-a-mercy Wench, If thou dost cuckold me I shall forgive thee. _Din._ The house will all rise now, this will disturb all. Did you do this? _Lam._ Peace, and sit quiet, fool, You love me, come, sit down and drink. _Enter_ Cleremont _above_. _Cler._ What a Devil ail you? How cold I sweat! a hogs pox stop your pipes, [_Musick._ The thing will 'wake; now, now, methinks I find His Sword just gliding through my throat. What's that? A vengeance choak your pipes. Are you there, Lady? Stop, stop those Rascals; do you bring me hither To be cut into minced meat? why _Dinant_? _Din._ I cannot do withal; I have spoke, and spoke; I am betray'd and lost too. _Cler._ Do you hear me? do you understand me? 'Plague dam your Whistles. [_Musick ends._ _Lam._ 'Twas but an over-sight, they have done, lye down. _Cler._ Would you had done too, You know not In what a misery and fear I lye. You have a Lady in your arms. _Din._ I would have-- [_The Recorders again._ _Champ._ I'll watch you Goodman Wou'd have. _Cler._ Remove for Heavens sake, And fall to that you come for. _Lam._ Lie you down, 'Tis but an hours endurance now. _Cler._ I dare not, softly sweet Lady ----heart? _Lam._ 'Tis nothing but your fear, he sleeps still soundly, Lie gently down. _Cler._ 'Pray make an end. _Din._ Come, Madam. _Lam._ These Chambers are too near. [_Ex._ Din. Lam. _Cham._ I shall be nearer; Well, go thy wayes, I'le trust thee through the world, Deal how thou wilt: that that I never feel, I'le never fear. Yet by the honour of a Souldier, I hold thee truly noble: How these things will look, And how their blood will curdle! Play on Children, You shall have pap anon. O thou grand Fool, That thou knew'st but thy fortune-- [_Musick done._ _Cler._ Peace, good Madam, Stop her mouth, _Dinant_, it sleeps yet, 'pray be wary, Dispatch, I cannot endure this misery, I can hear nothing more; I'll say my prayers, And down again-- [_Whistle within._ A thousand Alarms fall upon my quarters, Heaven send me off; when I lye keeping Courses. Pl---- o' your fumbling, _Dinant_; how I shake! 'Tis still again: would I were in the _Indies_. [_Exit_ Cler. _Enter_ Dinant, _and_ Lamira: _a light within_. _Din._ Why do you use me thus? thus poorly? basely? Work me into a hope, and then destroy me? Why did you send for me? this new way train me? _Lam._ Mad-man, and fool, and false man, now I'll shew thee. _Din._ 'Pray put your light out. _Lam._ Nay I'll hold it thus, That all chaste Eyes may see thy lust, and scorn it. Tell me but this when you first doted on me, And made suit to enjoy me as your Wife, Did you not hold me honest? _Din._ Yes, most vertuous. _Lam._ And did not that appear the only lustre That made me worth your love and admiration? _Din._ I must confess-- _Lam._ Why would you deal so basely? So like a thief, a Villain? _Din._ Peace, good Madam. _Lam._ I'll speak aloud too; thus maliciously, Thus breaking all the Rules of honesty, Of honour and of truth, for which I lov'd you, For which I call'd you servant, and admir'd you; To steal that Jewel purchas'd by another, Piously set in Wedlock, even that Jewel, Because it had no flaw, you held unvaluable: Can he that has lov'd good, dote on the Devil? For he that seeks a Whore, seeks but his Agent; Or am I of so wild and low a blood? So nurs'd in infamies? _Din._ I do not think so, And I repent. _Lam._ That will not serve your turn, Sir. _Din._ It was your treaty drew me on. _Lam._ But it was your villany Made you pursue it; I drew you but to try How much a man, and nobly thou durst stand, How well you had deserv'd the name of vertuous; But you like a wild torrent, mix'd with all Beastly and base affections came floating on, Swelling your poyson'd billows-- _Din._ Will you betray me? _Lam._ To all the miseries a vext Woman may. _Din._ Let me but out, Give me but room to toss my Sword about me, And I will tell you y'are a treacherous woman, O that I had but words! _Lam._ They will not serve you. _Din._ But two-edg'd words to cut thee; a Lady traytor? Perish by a proud Puppet? I did you too much honour, To tender you my love, too much respected you To think you worthy of my worst embraces. Go take your Groom, and let him dally with you, Your greasie Groom; I scorn to imp your lame stock, You are not fair, nor handsome, I lyed loudly, This tongue abus'd you when it spoke you beauteous. _Lam._ 'Tis very well, 'tis brave. _Din._ Put out your light, Your lascivious eyes are flames enough For Fools to find you out; a Lady Plotter! Must I begin your sacrifice of mischief? I and my friend, the first-fruits of that bloud, You and your honourable Husband aim at? Crooked and wretched you are both. _Lam._ To you, Sir, Yet to the Eye of Justice straight as Truth. _Din._ Is this a womans love? a womans mercy? Do you profess this seriously? do you laugh at me? _Lam._ Ha, ha. _Din._ Pl---- light upon your scorns, upon your flatteries, Upon your tempting faces, all destructions; A bedrid winter hang upon your cheeks, And blast, blast, blast those buds of Pride that paint you; Death in your eyes to fright men from these dangers: Raise up your trophy, _Cleremont_. _Cler._ What a vengeance ail you? _Din._ What dismal noise! is there no honour in you? _Cleremont_, we are betrayed, betrayed, sold by a woman; Deal bravely for thy self. _Cler._ This comes of rutting; Are we made stales to one another? _Din._ Yes, we are undone, lost. _Cler._ You shall pay for't grey-beard. Up, up, you sleep your last else. {_Lights above, two Servants {and_ Anabel. _1 Serv._ No, not yet, Sir, Lady, look up, would you have wrong'd this Beauty? Wake so tender a Virgin with rough terms? You wear a Sword, we must entreat you leave it. _2 Serv._ Fye Sir, so sweet a Lady? _Cler._ Was this my bed-fellow, pray give me leave to look, I am not mad yet, I may be by and by. Did this lye by me? Did I fear this? is this a Cause to shake at? Away with me for shame, I am a Rascal. _Enter_ Champernel, Beaupre, Verdone, Lamira, Anabel, Cleremont, _and two Servants_. _Din._ I am amaz'd too. _Beaup._ We'll recover you. _Verd._ You walk like _Robin-good-fellow_ all the house over, And every man afraid of you. _Din._ 'Tis well, Lady; The honour of this deed will be your own, The world shall know your bounty. _Beaup._ What shall we do with 'em? _Cler._ Geld me, For 'tis not fit I should be a man again, I am an Ass, a Dog. _Lam._ Take your revenges, You know my Husbands wrongs and your own losses. _Anab._ A brave man, an admirable brave man; Well, well, I would not be so tryed again; A very handsome proper Gentleman. _Cler._ Will you let me lye by her but one hour more, And then hang me? _Din._ We wait your malice, put your swords home bravely, You have reason to seek bloud. _Lam._ Not as you are noble. _Cham._ Hands off, and give them liberty, only disarm 'em. _Beaup._ We have done that already. _Cham._ You are welcome, Gentlemen, I am glad my house has any pleasure for you, I keep a couple of Ladies here, they say fair, And you are young and handsome, Gentlemen; Have you any more mind to Wenches? _Cler._ To be abus'd too? Lady, you might have help'd this. _Ana._ Sir now 'tis past, but 't may be I may stand Your friend hereafter, in a greater matter. _Cler._ Never whilst you live. _Ana._ You cannot tell--now, Sir, a parting hand. _Cler._ Down and Roses: Well I may live to see you again. A dull Rogue, No revelation in thee. _Lam._ Were you well frighted? Were your fitts from the heart, of all colds and colours? That's all your punishment. _Cler._ It might have been all yours, Had not a block-head undertaken it. _Cham._ Your swords you must leave to these Gentlemen. _Verd._ And now, when you dare fight, We are on even Ice again. _Din._ 'Tis well: To be a Mistris, is to be a monster, And so I leave your house, and you for ever. _Lam._ Leave your wild lusts, and then you are a master. _Cham._ You may depart too. _Cler._ I had rather stay here. _Cham._ Faith we shall fright you worse. _Cler._ Not in that manner, There's five hundred Crowns, fright me but so again. _Din._ Come _Cleremont_, this is the hour of fool. _Cler._ Wiser the next shall be or we'll to School. [_Exeunt._ _Champ._ How coolly these hot gallants are departed! Faith Cousin, 'twas unconscionably done, To lye so still, and so long. _Anab._ 'Twas your pleasure, If 'twere a fault, I may hereafter mend. _Champ._ O my best Wife, Take now what course thou wilt, and lead what life. _Lam._ The more trust you commit, the more care still, Goodness and vertue shall attend my will. _Cham._ Let's laugh this night out now, and count our gains. We have our honours home, and they their pains. [_Exeunt omnes._ _Actus Quartus. Scena Prima._ _Enter_ Cleremont, Dinant. _Din._ It holds, they will go thither. _Cler._ To their Summer-house? _Din._ Thither i'th' evening, and which is the most infliction, Only to insult upon our miseries. _Cler._ Are you provided? _Din._ Yes, yes. _Cler._ Throughly? _Din._ Throughly. _Cler._ Basta, enough, I have your mind, I will not fail you. _Din._ At such an hour. _Cler._ Have I a memory? A Cause, and Will to do? thou art so sullen-- _Din._ And shall be, till I have a fair reparation. _Cler._ I have more reason, for I scaped a fortune, Which if I come so near again: I say nothing, But if I sweat not in another fashion-- O, a delicate Wench. _Din._ 'Tis certain a most handsome one. _Cler._ And me thought the thing was angry with it self too It lay so long conceal'd, but I must part with you, I have a scene of mirth, to drive this from my heart, And my hour is come. _Din._ Miss not your time. _Cler._ I dare not. [_Exeunt severally._ _Enter_ Sampson, _and a Gentleman_. _Gent._ I presume, Sir, you now need no instruction, But fairly know, what belongs to a Gentleman; You bear your Uncles cause. _Sam._ Do not disturb me, I understand my cause, and the right carriage. _Gent._ Be not too bloody. _Sam._ As I find my enemy; if his sword bite, If it bite, Sir, you must pardon me. _Gent._ No doubt he is valiant, He durst not undertake else, _Sam._ He's most welcome, As he is most valiant, he were no man for me else. _Gent._ But say he should relent. _Sam._ He dies relenting, I cannot help it, he must di[e] relenting, If he pray, praying, _ipso facto_, praying, Your honourable way admits no prayer, And if he fight, he falls, there's his _quietus_. _Gent._ Y'are nobly punctual, let's retire and meet 'em, But still, I say, have mercy. _Samp._ I say, honour. [_Exeunt._ _Enter_ Champernel, Lamira, Anabel, Beaupre, Verdone, Charlote _and a Servant_. _Lam._ Will not you go sweet-heart? _Champ._ Go? I'le fly with thee. I stay behind? _Lam._ My Father will be there too, And all our best friends. _Beau._ And if we be not merry, We have hard luck, Lady. _Verd._ Faith let's have a kind of play. _Cham._ What shall it be? _Verd._ The story of _Dinant_. _Lam._ With the merry conceits of _Cleremont_, His Fits and Feavers. _Ana._ But I'le lie still no more. _Lam._ That, as you make the Play, 'twill be rare sport, And how 'twill vex my gallants, when they hear it! Have you given order for the Coach? _Charl._ Yes, Madam. _Cham._ My easie Nag, and padd. _Serv._ 'Tis making ready. _Champ._ Where are your Horses? _Beau._ Ready at an hour, Sir: we'll not be last. _Cham._ Fie, what a night shall we have! A roaring, merry night. _Lam._ We'll flie at all, Sir. _Cham._ I'le flie at thee too, finely, and so ruffle thee, I'le try your Art upon a Country pallet. _Lam._ Brag not too much, for fear I should expect it, Then if you fail-- _Cham._ Thou saiest too true, we all talk.

women

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

villain, (But yet no coward) and sollicites me To my dishonour, that's indeed a quarrel, And truly mine, which I will so revenge, As it shall fright such as dare only think To be adulterers. _Cham._ Use thine own waies, I give up all to thee. _Beau._ O women, women! When you are pleas'd you are the least of evils. _Verd._ I'le rime to't, but provokt, the worst of Devils. [_Exeunt._ _Enter Monsieur_ Sampson, _and three Clients_. _Samp._ I know Monsieur _La-writ_. _1 Cly._ Would he knew himself, Sir. _Samp._ He was a pretty Lawyer, a kind of pretty Lawyer, Of a kind of unable thing. _2 Cly._ A fine Lawyer, Sir, And would have firk'd you up a business, And out of this Court into that. _Samp._ Ye are too forward Not so fine my friends, something he could have done, But short short. _1 Cly._ I know your worships favour, You are Nephew to the Judge, Sir. _Samp._ It may be so, And something may be done, without trotting i'th' dirt, friends; It may be I can take him in his Chamber, And have an hours talk, it may be so, And tell him that in's ear; there are such courtesies; I will not say, I can. _3 Cly._ We know you can, Sir. _Sam._ Peradventure I, peradventure no: but where's _La-writ_? Where's your sufficient Lawyer? _1 Cly._ He's blown up, Sir. _2 Cly._ Run mad and quarrels with the Dog he meets; He is no Lawyer of this world now. _Sam._ Your reason? Is he defunct? is he dead? _2 Cly._ No he's not dead yet, Sir; But I would be loth to take a lease on's life for two hours: Alas, he is possest Sir, with the spirit of fighting And quarrels with all people; but how he came to it-- _Samp._ If he fight well and like a Gentleman, The man may fight, for 'tis a lawfull calling. Look you my friends, I am a civil Gentleman, And my Lord my Uncle loves me. _3 Cly._ We all know it, Sir. _Sam._ I think he does, Sir, I have business too, much business, Turn you some forty or fifty Causes in a week; Yet when I get an hour of vacancie, I can fight too my friends, a little does well, I would be loth to learn to fight. _1 Cly._ But and't please you Sir, His fighting has neglected all our business, We are undone, our causes cast away, Sir, His not appearance. _Sam._ There he fought too long, A little and fight well, he fought too long indeed friends; But ne'r the less things must be as they may, And there be wayes-- _1 Cly._ We know, Sir, if you please-- _Sam._ Something I'le do: goe rally up your Causes. _Enter_ La-writ, _and a_ Gentleman, _at the door_. _2 Cly._ Now you may behold Sir, And be a witness, whether we lie or no. _La-writ._ I'le meet you at the Ordinary, sweet Gentlemen, And if there be a wench or two-- _Gen._ We'll have 'em. _La-writ._ No handling any Duells before I come, We'll have no going else, I hate a coward. _Gent._ There shall be nothing done. _La-writ._ Make all the quarrels You can devise before I come, and let's all fight, There is no sport else. _Gent._ We'll see what may be done, Sir. _1 Cly._ Ha? Monsieur _La-writ_. _La-writ._ Baffled in way of business, My causes cast away, Judgement against us? Why there it goes. _2 Cly._ What shall we do the whilst Sir? _La-wr._ Breed new dissentions, goe hang your selves 'Tis all one to me; I have a new trade of living. _1 Cli._ Do you hear what he saies Sir? _Sam._ The Gentleman speaks finely. _La-wr._ Will any of you fight? Fighting's my occupation If you find your selves aggriev'd. _Sam._ A compleat Gentleman. _La-writ._ Avant thou buckram budget of petitions, Thou spittle of lame causes; I lament for thee, And till revenge be taken-- _Sam._ 'Tis most excellent. _La-wr._ There, every man chuse his paper, and his place. I'le answer ye all, I will neglect no mans business But he shall have satisfaction like a Gentleman, The Judge may do and not do, he's but a Monsieur. _Sam._ You have nothing of mine in your bag, Sir. _La-writ._ I know not Sir, But you may put any thing in, any fighting thing. _Sam._ It is sufficient, you may hear hereafter. _La-writ._ I rest your servant Sir. _Sam._ No more words Gentlemen But follow me, no more words as you love me, The Gentleman's a noble Gentleman. I shall do what I can, and then-- _Cli._ We thank you Sir. [_Ex._ Sam. _and_ Clients. _Sam._ Not a word to disturb him, he's a Gentleman. _La-writ._ No cause go o' my side? the judge cast all? And because I was honourably employed in action, And not appear'd, pronounce? 'tis very well, 'Tis well faith, 'tis well, Judge. _Enter_ Cleremont. _Cler._ Who have we here? My little furious Lawyer? _La-writ._ I say 'tis well, But mark the end. _Cler._ How he is metamorphos'd! Nothing of Lawyer left, not a bit of buckram, No solliciting face now, This is no simple conversion. Your servant Sir, and Friend. _La-writ._ You come in time, Sir, _Cler._ The happier man, to be at your command then. _La-writ._ You may wonder to see me thus; but that's all one, Time shall declare; 'tis true I was a Lawyer, But I have mew'd that coat, I hate a Lawyer, I talk'd much in the Court, now I hate talking, I did you the office of a man. _Cler._ I must confess it. _La-w._ And budg'd not, no I budg'd not. _Cler._ No, you did not. _La-w._ There's it then, one good turn requires another. _Cler._ Most willing Sir, I am ready at your service. _La-w._ There, read, and understand, and then deliver it. _Cler._ This is a Challenge, Sir, _La-w._ 'Tis very like, Sir, I seldom now write Sonnets. _Cler._ _O admirantis_, To Monsieur _Vertaign_, the President. _La-w._ I chuse no Fool, Sir. _Cler._ Why, he's no Sword-man, Sir. _La-w._ Let him learn, let him learn, Time, that trains Chickens up, will teach him quickly. _Cler._ Why, he's a Judge, an Old Man. _La-w._ Never too Old To be a Gentleman; and he that is a Judge Can judge best what belongs to wounded honour. There are my griefs, he has cast away my causes, In which he has bowed my reputation. And therefore Judge, or no Judge. _Cler._ 'Pray be rul'd Sir, This is the maddest thing-- _La-w._ You will not carry it. _Cler._ I do not tell you so, but if you may be perswaded. _La-w._ You know how you us'd me when I would not fight, Do you remember, Gentleman? _Cler._ The Devil's in him. _La-w._ I see it in your Eyes, that you dare do it, You have a carrying face, and you shall carry it. _Cler._ The least is Banishment. _La-w._ Be banish'd then; 'Tis a friends part, we'll meet in _Africa_, Or any part of the Earth. _Cler._ Say he will not fight. _La-w._ I know then what to say, take you no care, Sir, _Cler._ Well, I will carry it, and deliver it, And to morrow morning meet you in the Louver, Till when, my service. _La-w._ A Judge, or no Judge, no Judge. [_Exit_ La-writ. _Cler._ This is the prettiest Rogue that e'r I read of, None to provoke to th' field, but the old President; What face shall I put on? if I come in earnest, I am sure to wear a pair of Bracelets; This may make some sport yet, I will deliver it, Here comes the President. _Enter_ Vertaign, _with two Gentlemen_. _Vert._ I shall find time, Gentlemen, To do your causes good, is not that _Cleremont_? _1 Gent._ 'Tis he my Lord. _Vert._ Why does he smile upon me? Am I become ridiculous? has your fortune, Sir, Upon my Son, made you contemn his Father? The glory of a Gentleman is fair bearing. _Cler._ Mistake me not my Lord, you shall not find that, I come with no blown Spirit to abuse you, I know your place and honour due unto it, The reverence to your silver Age and Vertue. _Vert._ Your face is merry still. _Cler._ So is my business, And I beseech your honour mistake me not, I have brought you from a wild or rather Mad-man As mad a piece of--you were wont to love mirth In your young days, I have known your Honour woo it, This may be made no little one, 'tis a Challenge, Sir, Nay, start not, I beseech you, it means you no harm, Nor any Man of Honour, or Understanding, 'Tis to steal from your serious hours a little laughter; I am bold to bring it to your Lordship. _Vert._ 'Tis to me indeed: Do they take me for a Sword-man at these years? _Cler._ 'Tis only worth your Honours Mirth, that's all Sir, 'Thad been in me else a sawcy rudeness. _Vert._ From one _La-writ_, a very punctual Challenge. _Cler._ But if your Lordship mark it, no great matter. _Vert._ I have known such a wrangling Advocate, Such a little figent thing; Oh I remember him, A notable talking Knave, now out upon him, Has challeng'd me downright, defied me mortally I do remember too, I cast his Causes. _Cler._ Why, there's the quarrel, Sir, the mortal quarrel. _Vert._ Why, what a Knave is this? as y'are a Gentleman, Is there no further purpose but meer mirth? What a bold Man of War! he invites me roundly. _Cler._ If there should be, I were no Gentleman, Nor worthy of the honour of my Kindred. And though I am sure your Lordship hates my Person, Which Time may bring again into your favour, Yet for the manners-- _Vert._ I am satisfied, You see, Sir, I have out-liv'd those days of fighting, And therefore cannot do him the honour to beat him my self; But I have a Kinsman much of his ability, His Wit and Courage, for this call him Fool, One that will spit as senseless fire as this Fellow. _Cler._ And such a man to undertake, my Lord? _Vert._ Nay he's too forward; these two pitch Barrels together. _Cler._ Upon my soul, no harm. _Vert._ It makes me smile, Why, what a stinking smother will they utter! Yes, he shall undertake, Sir, as my Champion, Since you propound it mirth, I'll venture on it, And shall defend my cause, but as y'are honest Sport not with bloud. _Cler._ Think not so basely, good Sir. _Vert._ A Squire shall wait upon you from my Kinsman, To morrow morning make you sport at full, You want no Subject; but no wounds. _Cler._ That's my care. _Ver._ And so good day. [_Ex._ Vertaign, _and Gentlemen_. _Cler._ Many unto your honour. This is a noble Fellow, of a sweet Spirit, Now must I think how to contrive this matter, For together they shall go. _Enter_ Dinant. _Din._ O _Cleremont_, I am glad I have found thee. _Cler._ I can tell thee rare things. _Din._ O, I can tell thee rarer, Dost thou love me? _Cler._ Love thee? _Din._ Dost thou love me dearly? Dar'st thou for my sake? _Cler._ Any thing that's honest. _Din._ Though it be dangerous? _Cler._ Pox o' dangerous. _Din._ Nay wondrous dangerous. _Cler._ Wilt thou break my heart? _Din._ Along with me then. _Cler._ I must part to morrow. _Din._ You shall, you shall, be faithful for this night, And thou hast made thy friend. _Cler._ Away, and talk not. [_Exeunt._ _Enter_ Lamira, _and Nurse_. _Lam._ O Nurse, welcome, where's _Dinant_? _Nurse._ He's at my back. 'Tis the most liberal Gentleman, this Gold He gave me for my pains, nor can I blame you, If you yield up the fort. _Lam._ How? yield it up? _Nurse._ I know not, he that loves, and gives so largely, And a young Lord to boot, or I am cozen'd, May enter every where. _Lam._ Thou'lt make me angry. _Enter_ Dinant, _and_ Cleremont. _Nur._ Why, if you are, I hope here's one will please you, Look on him with my Eyes, good luck go with you: Were I young for your sake-- _Din._ I thank thee, Nurse. _Nur._ I would be tractable, and as I am-- _Lam._ Leave the room, So old, and so immodest! and be careful, Since whispers will 'wake sleeping jealousies, That none disturb my Lord. [_Exit Nurse._ _Cler._ Will you dispatch? Till you come to the matter be not rapt thus, Walk in, walk in, I am your scout for once, You owe me the like service. _Din._ And will pay it. _Lam._ As you respect our lives, speak not so loud. _Cler._ Why, do it in dumb shew then, I am silenc'd. _Lam._ Be not so hasty, Sir, the golden Apples Had a fell Dragon for their Guard, your pleasures Are to be attempted with _Herculean_ danger, Or never to be gotten. _Din._ Speak the means. _Lam._ Thus briefly, my Lord sleeps now, and alas, Each Night, he only sleeps. _Cler._ Go, keep her stirring. _Lam._ Now if he 'wake, as sometimes he does, He only stretches out his hand and feels, Whether I am a bed, which being assur'd of, He sleeps again; but should he miss me, Valour Could not defend our lives. _Din._ What's to be done then? _Lam._ Servants have servile faiths, nor have I any That I dare trust; on noble _Cleremont_ We safely may rely. _Cler._ What man can do, Command and boldly. _Lam._ Thus then in my place, You must lye with my Lord. _Cler._ With an old man? Two Beards together, that's preposterous. _Lam._ There is no other way, and though 'tis dangerous, He having servants within call, and arm'd too, Slaves fed to act all that his jealousie And rage commands them, yet a true friend should not Check at the hazard of a life. _Cler._ I thank you, I love my friend, but know no reason why To hate my self; to be a kind of pander, You see I am willing, But to betray mine own throat you must pardon. _Din._ Then I am lost, and all my hopes defeated, Were I to hazard ten times more for you, You should find, _Cleremont_-- _Cler._ You shall not outdo me, Fall what may fall, I'll do't. _Din._ But for his Beard-- _Lam._ To cover that you shall have my night Linnen, And you dispos'd of, my _Dinant_ and I Will have some private conference. _Enter_ Champernel, _privately_. _Cler._ Private doing, Or I'll not venture. _Lam._ That's as we agree. [_Exeunt._ _Enter Nurse, and_ Charlotte, _pass over the Stage with Pillows, Night cloaths, and such things_. _Cham._ What can this Woman do, preserving her honour? I have given her all the liberty that may be, I will not be far off though, nor I will not be jealous, Nor trust too much, I think she is vertuous, Yet when I hold her best, she's but a Woman, As full of frailty as of faith, a poor sleight Woman, And her best thoughts, but weak fortifications, There may be a Mine wrought: Well, let 'em work then, I shall meet with it, till the signs be monstrous, And stick upon my head, I will not believe it, [_Stands private._ She may be, and she may not, now to my observation. _Enter_ Dinant, _and_ Lamira. _Din._ Why do you make me stay so? if you love me-- _Lam._ You are too hot and violent. _Din._ Why do you shift thus From one Chamber to another? _Lam._ A little delay, Sir, Like fire, a little sprinkled o'r with water Makes the desires burn clear, and ten times hotter. _Din._ Why do you speak so loud? I pray'e go in, Sweet Mistriss, I am mad, time steals away, And when we would enjoy-- _Lam._ Now fie, fie, Servant, Like sensual Beasts shall we enjoy our pleasures? _Din._ 'Pray do not kiss me then. _Lam._ Why, that I will, and you shall find anon, servant. _Din._ Softly, for heavens sake, you know my friend's engag'd, A little now, now; will ye go in again? _Lam._ Ha, ha, ha, ha. _Din._ Why do you laugh so loud, Precious? Will you betray me; ha' my friends throat cut? _Lam._ Come, come, I'll kiss thee again. _Cham._ Will you so? you are liberal, If you do cozen me-- _Enter Nurse with Wine._ _Din._ What's this? _Lam._ Wine, Wine, a draught or two. _Din._ What does this Woman here? _Lam._ She shall not hinder you. _Din._ This might have been spar'd, 'Tis but delay and time lost; pray send her softly off. _Lam._ Sit down, and mix your spirits with Wine, I will make you another _Hercules_. _Din._ I dare not drink; Fie, what delays you make! I dare not, I shall be drunk presently, and do strange things then. _Lam._ Not drink a cup with your Mistriss! O the pleasure. _Din._ Lady, why this? [_Musick._ _Lam._ We must have mirth to our Wine, Man. _Din._ Pl---- o' the Musick. _Champ._ God-a-mercy Wench, If thou dost cuckold me I shall forgive thee. _Din._ The house will all rise now, this will disturb all. Did you do this? _Lam._ Peace, and sit quiet, fool, You love me, come, sit down and drink. _Enter_ Cleremont _above_. _Cler._ What a Devil ail you? How cold I sweat! a hogs pox stop your pipes, [_Musick._ The thing will 'wake; now, now, methinks I find His Sword just gliding through my throat. What's that? A vengeance choak your pipes. Are you there, Lady? Stop, stop those Rascals; do you bring me hither To be cut into minced meat? why _Dinant_? _Din._ I cannot do withal; I have spoke, and spoke; I am betray'd and lost too. _Cler._ Do you hear me? do you understand me? 'Plague dam your Whistles. [_Musick ends._ _Lam._ 'Twas but an over-sight, they have done, lye down. _Cler._ Would you had done too, You know not In what a misery and fear I lye. You have a Lady in your arms. _Din._ I would have-- [_The Recorders again._ _Champ._ I'll watch you Goodman Wou'd have. _Cler._ Remove for Heavens sake, And fall to that you come for. _Lam._ Lie you down, 'Tis but an hours endurance now. _Cler._ I dare not, softly sweet Lady ----heart? _Lam._ 'Tis nothing but your fear, he sleeps still soundly, Lie gently down. _Cler._ 'Pray make an end. _Din._ Come, Madam. _Lam._ These Chambers are too near. [_Ex._ Din. Lam. _Cham._ I shall be nearer; Well, go thy wayes, I'le trust thee through the world, Deal how thou wilt: that that I never feel, I'le never fear. Yet by the honour of a Souldier, I hold thee truly noble: How these things will look, And how their blood will curdle! Play on Children, You shall have pap anon. O thou grand Fool, That thou knew'st but thy fortune-- [_Musick done._ _Cler._ Peace, good Madam, Stop her mouth, _Dinant_, it sleeps yet, 'pray be wary, Dispatch, I cannot endure this misery, I can hear nothing more; I'll say my prayers, And down again-- [_Whistle within._ A thousand Alarms fall upon my quarters, Heaven send me off; when I lye keeping Courses. Pl---- o' your fumbling, _Dinant_; how I shake! 'Tis still again: would I were in the _Indies_. [_Exit_ Cler. _Enter_ Dinant, _and_ Lamira: _a light within_. _Din._ Why do you use me thus? thus poorly? basely? Work me into a hope, and then destroy me? Why did you send for me? this new way train me? _Lam._ Mad-man, and fool, and false man, now I'll shew thee. _Din._ 'Pray put your light out. _Lam._ Nay I'll hold it thus, That all chaste Eyes may see thy lust, and scorn it. Tell me but this when you first doted on me, And made suit to enjoy me as your Wife, Did you not hold me honest? _Din._ Yes, most vertuous. _Lam._ And did not that appear the only lustre That made me worth your love and admiration? _Din._ I must confess-- _Lam._ Why would you deal so basely? So like a thief, a Villain? _Din._ Peace, good Madam. _Lam._ I'll speak aloud too; thus maliciously, Thus breaking all the Rules of honesty, Of honour and of truth, for which I lov'd you, For which I call'd you servant, and admir'd you; To steal that Jewel purchas'd by another, Piously set in Wedlock, even that Jewel, Because it had no flaw, you held unvaluable: Can he that has lov'd good, dote on the Devil? For he that seeks a Whore, seeks but his Agent; Or am I of so wild and low a blood? So nurs'd in infamies? _Din._ I do not think so, And I repent. _Lam._ That will not serve your turn, Sir. _Din._ It was your treaty drew me on. _Lam._ But it was your villany Made you pursue it; I drew you but to try How much a man, and nobly thou durst stand, How well you had deserv'd the name of vertuous; But you like a wild torrent, mix'd with all Beastly and base affections came floating on, Swelling your poyson'd billows-- _Din._ Will you betray me? _Lam._ To all the miseries a vext Woman may. _Din._ Let me but out, Give me but room to toss my Sword about me, And I will tell you y'are a treacherous woman, O that I had but words! _Lam._ They will not serve you. _Din._ But two-edg'd words to cut thee; a Lady traytor? Perish by a proud Puppet? I did you too much honour, To tender you my love, too much respected you To think you worthy of my worst embraces. Go take your Groom, and let him dally with you, Your greasie Groom; I scorn to imp your lame stock, You are not fair, nor handsome, I lyed loudly, This tongue abus'd you when it spoke you beauteous. _Lam._ 'Tis very well, 'tis brave. _Din._ Put out your light, Your lascivious eyes are flames enough For Fools to find you out; a Lady Plotter! Must I begin your sacrifice of mischief? I and my friend, the first-fruits of that bloud, You and your honourable Husband aim at? Crooked and wretched you are both. _Lam._ To you, Sir, Yet to the Eye of Justice straight as Truth. _Din._ Is this a womans love? a womans mercy? Do you profess this seriously? do you laugh at me? _Lam._ Ha, ha. _Din._ Pl---- light upon your scorns, upon your flatteries, Upon your tempting faces, all destructions; A bedrid winter hang upon your cheeks, And blast, blast, blast those buds of Pride that paint you; Death in your eyes to fright men from these dangers: Raise up your trophy, _Cleremont_. _Cler._ What a vengeance ail you? _Din._ What dismal noise! is there no honour in you? _Cleremont_, we are betrayed, betrayed, sold by a woman; Deal bravely for thy self. _Cler._ This comes of rutting; Are we made stales to one another? _Din._ Yes, we are undone, lost. _Cler._ You shall pay for't grey-beard. Up, up, you sleep your last else. {_Lights above, two Servants {and_ Anabel. _1 Serv._ No, not yet, Sir, Lady, look up, would you have wrong'd this Beauty? Wake so tender a Virgin with rough terms? You wear a Sword, we must entreat you leave it. _2 Serv._ Fye Sir, so sweet a Lady? _Cler._ Was this my bed-fellow, pray give me leave to look, I am not mad yet, I may be by and by. Did this lye by me? Did I fear this? is this a Cause to shake at? Away with me for shame, I am a Rascal. _Enter_ Champernel, Beaupre, Verdone, Lamira, Anabel, Cleremont, _and two Servants_. _Din._ I am amaz'd too. _Beaup._ We'll recover you. _Verd._ You walk like _Robin-good-fellow_ all the house over, And every man afraid of you. _Din._ 'Tis well, Lady; The honour of this deed will be your own, The world shall know your bounty. _Beaup._ What shall we do with 'em? _Cler._ Geld me, For 'tis not fit I should be a man again, I am an Ass, a Dog. _Lam._ Take your revenges, You know my Husbands wrongs and your own losses. _Anab._ A brave man, an admirable brave man; Well, well, I would not be so tryed again; A very handsome proper Gentleman. _Cler._ Will you let me lye by her but one hour more, And then hang me? _Din._ We wait your malice, put your swords home bravely, You have reason to seek bloud. _Lam._ Not as you are noble. _Cham._ Hands off, and give them liberty, only disarm 'em. _Beaup._ We have done that already. _Cham._ You are welcome, Gentlemen, I am glad my house has any pleasure for you, I keep a couple of Ladies here, they say fair, And you are young and handsome, Gentlemen; Have you any more mind to Wenches? _Cler._ To be abus'd too? Lady, you might have help'd this. _Ana._ Sir now 'tis past, but 't may be I may stand Your friend hereafter, in a greater matter. _Cler._ Never whilst you live. _Ana._ You cannot tell--now, Sir, a parting hand. _Cler._ Down and Roses: Well I may live to see you again. A dull Rogue, No revelation in thee. _Lam._ Were you well frighted? Were your fitts from the heart, of all colds and colours? That's all your punishment. _Cler._ It might have been all yours, Had not a block-head undertaken it. _Cham._ Your swords you must leave to these Gentlemen. _Verd._ And now, when you dare fight, We are on even Ice again. _Din._ 'Tis well: To be a Mistris, is to be a monster, And so I leave your house, and you for ever. _Lam._ Leave your wild lusts, and then you are a master. _Cham._ You may depart too. _Cler._ I had rather stay here. _Cham._ Faith we shall fright you worse. _Cler._ Not in that manner, There's five hundred Crowns, fright me but so again. _Din._ Come _Cleremont_, this is the hour of fool. _Cler._ Wiser the next shall be or we'll to School. [_Exeunt._ _Champ._ How coolly these hot gallants are departed! Faith Cousin, 'twas unconscionably done, To lye so still, and so long. _Anab._ 'Twas your pleasure, If 'twere a fault, I may hereafter mend. _Champ._ O my best Wife, Take now what course thou wilt, and lead what life. _Lam._ The more trust you commit, the more care still, Goodness and vertue shall attend my will. _Cham._ Let's laugh this night out now, and count our gains. We have our honours home, and they their pains. [_Exeunt omnes._ _Actus Quartus. Scena Prima._ _Enter_ Cleremont, Dinant. _Din._ It holds, they will go thither. _Cler._ To their Summer-house? _Din._ Thither i'th' evening, and which is the most infliction, Only to insult upon our miseries. _Cler._ Are you provided? _Din._ Yes, yes. _Cler._ Throughly? _Din._ Throughly. _Cler._ Basta, enough, I have your mind, I will not fail you. _Din._ At such an hour. _Cler._ Have I a memory? A Cause, and Will to do? thou art so sullen-- _Din._ And shall be, till I have a fair reparation. _Cler._ I have more reason, for I scaped a fortune, Which if I come so near again: I say nothing, But if I sweat not in another fashion-- O, a delicate Wench. _Din._ 'Tis certain a most handsome one. _Cler._ And me thought the thing was angry with it self too It lay so long conceal'd, but I must part with you, I have a scene of mirth, to drive this from my heart, And my hour is come. _Din._ Miss not your time. _Cler._ I dare not. [_Exeunt severally._ _Enter_ Sampson, _and a Gentleman_. _Gent._ I presume, Sir, you now need no instruction, But fairly know, what belongs to a Gentleman; You bear your Uncles cause. _Sam._ Do not disturb me, I understand my cause, and the right carriage. _Gent._ Be not too bloody. _Sam._ As I find my enemy; if his sword bite, If it bite, Sir, you must pardon me. _Gent._ No doubt he is valiant, He durst not undertake else, _Sam._ He's most welcome, As he is most valiant, he were no man for me else. _Gent._ But say he should relent. _Sam._ He dies relenting, I cannot help it, he must di[e] relenting, If he pray, praying, _ipso facto_, praying, Your honourable way admits no prayer, And if he fight, he falls, there's his _quietus_. _Gent._ Y'are nobly punctual, let's retire and meet 'em, But still, I say, have mercy. _Samp._ I say, honour. [_Exeunt._ _Enter_ Champernel, Lamira, Anabel, Beaupre, Verdone, Charlote _and a Servant_. _Lam._ Will not you go sweet-heart? _Champ._ Go? I'le fly with thee. I stay behind? _Lam._ My Father will be there too, And all our best friends. _Beau._ And if we be not merry, We have hard luck, Lady. _Verd._ Faith let's have a kind of play. _Cham._ What shall it be? _Verd._ The story of _Dinant_. _Lam._ With the merry conceits of _Cleremont_, His Fits and Feavers. _Ana._ But I'le lie still no more. _Lam._ That, as you make the Play, 'twill be rare sport, And how 'twill vex my gallants, when they hear it! Have you given order for the Coach? _Charl._ Yes, Madam. _Cham._ My easie Nag, and padd. _Serv._ 'Tis making ready. _Champ._ Where are your Horses? _Beau._ Ready at an hour, Sir: we'll not be last. _Cham._ Fie, what a night shall we have! A roaring, merry night. _Lam._ We'll flie at all, Sir. _Cham._ I'le flie at thee too, finely, and so ruffle thee, I'le try your Art upon a Country pallet. _Lam._ Brag not too much, for fear I should expect it, Then if you fail-- _Cham._ Thou saiest too true, we all talk.

deliver

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

walk With Heav'nly touch of instrumental sounds In full harmonic number joind, thir songs Divide the night, and lift our thoughts to Heaven. Thus talking hand in hand alone they pass'd On to thir blissful Bower; it was a place Chos'n by the sovran Planter, when he fram'd All things to mans delightful use; the roofe Of thickest covert was inwoven shade Laurel and Mirtle, and what higher grew Of firm and fragrant leaf; on either side ACANTHUS, and each odorous bushie shrub Fenc'd up the verdant wall; each beauteous flour, IRIS all hues, Roses, and Gessamin Rear'd high thir flourisht heads between, and wrought Mosaic; underfoot the Violet, Crocus, and Hyacinth with rich inlay Broiderd the ground, more colour'd then with stone Of costliest Emblem: other Creature here Beast, Bird, Insect, or Worm durst enter none; Such was thir awe of man. In shadier Bower More sacred and sequesterd, though but feignd, PAN or SILVANUS never slept, nor Nymph, Nor FAUNUS haunted. Here in close recess With Flowers, Garlands, and sweet-smelling Herbs Espoused EVE deckt first her Nuptial Bed, And heav'nly Quires the Hymenaean sung, What day the genial Angel to our Sire Brought her in naked beauty more adorn'd, More lovely then PANDORA, whom the Gods Endowd with all thir gifts, and O too like In sad event, when to the unwiser Son Of JAPHET brought by HERMES, she ensnar'd Mankind with her faire looks, to be aveng'd On him who had stole JOVES authentic fire. Thus at thir shadie Lodge arriv'd, both stood, Both turnd, and under op'n Skie ador'd The God that made both Skie, Air, Earth & Heav'n Which they beheld, the Moons resplendent Globe And starrie Pole: Thou also mad'st the Night, Maker Omnipotent, and thou the Day, Which we in our appointed work imployd Have finisht happie in our mutual help And mutual love, the Crown of all our bliss Ordain'd by thee, and this delicious place For us too large, where thy abundance wants Partakers, and uncropt falls to the ground. But thou hast promis'd from us two a Race To fill the Earth, who shall with us extoll Thy goodness infinite, both when we wake, And when we seek, as now, thy gift of sleep. This said unanimous, and other Rites Observing none, but adoration pure Which God likes best, into thir inmost bower Handed they went; and eas'd the putting off These troublesom disguises which wee wear, Strait side by side were laid, nor turnd I weene ADAM from his fair Spouse, nor EVE the Rites Mysterious of connubial Love refus'd: Whatever Hypocrites austerely talk Of puritie and place and innocence, Defaming as impure what God declares Pure, and commands to som, leaves free to all. Our Maker bids increase, who bids abstain But our Destroyer, foe to God and Man? Haile wedded Love, mysterious Law, true source Of human ofspring, sole proprietie, In Paradise of all things common else. By thee adulterous lust was driv'n from men Among the bestial herds to raunge, by thee Founded in Reason, Loyal, Just, and Pure, Relations dear, and all the Charities Of Father, Son, and Brother first were known. Farr be it, that I should write thee sin or blame, Or think thee unbefitting holiest place, Perpetual Fountain of Domestic sweets, Whose Bed is undefil'd and chast pronounc't, Present, or past, as Saints and Patriarchs us'd. Here Love his golden shafts imploies, here lights His constant Lamp, and waves his purple wings, Reigns here and revels; not in the bought smile Of Harlots, loveless, joyless, unindeard, Casual fruition, nor in Court Amours Mixt Dance, or wanton Mask, or Midnight Bal, Or Serenate, which the starv'd Lover sings To his proud fair, best quitted with disdain. These lulld by Nightingales imbraceing slept, And on thir naked limbs the flourie roof Showrd Roses, which the Morn repair'd. Sleep on, Blest pair; and O yet happiest if ye seek No happier state, and know to know no more. Now had night measur'd with her shaddowie Cone Half way up Hill this vast Sublunar Vault, And from thir Ivorie Port the Cherubim Forth issuing at th' accustomd hour stood armd To thir night watches in warlike Parade, When GABRIEL to his next in power thus spake. UZZIEL, half these draw off, and coast the South With strictest watch; these other wheel the North, Our circuit meets full West. As flame they part Half wheeling to the Shield, half to the Spear. From these, two strong and suttle Spirits he calld That neer him stood, and gave them thus in charge. ITHURIEL and ZEPHON, with wingd speed Search through this Garden, leav unsearcht no nook, But chiefly where those two fair Creatures Lodge, Now laid perhaps asleep secure of harme. This Eevning from the Sun's decline arriv'd Who tells of som infernal Spirit seen Hitherward bent (who could have thought?) escap'd The barrs of Hell, on errand bad no doubt: Such where ye find, seise fast, and hither bring. So saying, on he led his radiant Files, Daz'ling the Moon; these to the Bower direct In search of whom they sought: him there they found Squat like a Toad, close at the eare of EVE; Assaying by his Devilish art to reach The Organs of her Fancie, and with them forge Illusions as he list, Phantasms and Dreams, Or if, inspiring venom, he might taint Th' animal Spirits that from pure blood arise Like gentle breaths from Rivers pure, thence raise At least distemperd, discontented thoughts, Vain hopes, vain aimes, inordinate desires Blown up with high conceits ingendring pride. Him thus intent ITHURIEL with his Spear Touch'd lightly; for no falshood can endure Touch of Celestial temper, but returns Of force to its own likeness: up he starts Discoverd and surpriz'd. As when a spark Lights on a heap of nitrous Powder, laid Fit for the Tun som Magazin to store Against a rumord Warr, the Smuttie graine With sudden blaze diffus'd, inflames the Aire: So started up in his own shape the Fiend. Back stept those two fair Angels half amaz'd So sudden to behold the grieslie King; Yet thus, unmovd with fear, accost him soon. Which of those rebell Spirits adjudg'd to Hell Com'st thou, escap'd thy prison, and transform'd, Why satst thou like an enemie in waite Here watching at the head of these that sleep? Know ye not then said SATAN, filld with scorn, Know ye not me? ye knew me once no mate For you, there sitting where ye durst not soare; Not to know mee argues your selves unknown, The lowest of your throng; or if ye know, Why ask ye, and superfluous begin Your message, like to end as much in vain? To whom thus ZEPHON, answering scorn with scorn. Think not, revolted Spirit, thy shape the same, Or undiminisht brightness, to be known As when thou stoodst in Heav'n upright and pure; That Glorie then, when thou no more wast good, Departed from thee, and thou resembl'st now Thy sin and place of doom obscure and foule. But come, for thou, be sure, shalt give account To him who sent us, whose charge is to keep This place inviolable, and these from harm. So spake the Cherube, and his grave rebuke Severe in youthful beautie, added grace Invincible: abasht the Devil stood, And felt how awful goodness is, and saw Vertue in her shape how lovly, saw, and pin'd His loss; but chiefly to find here observd His lustre visibly impar'd; yet seemd Undaunted. If I must contend, said he, Best with the best, the Sender not the sent, Or all at once; more glorie will be wonn, Or less be lost. Thy fear, said ZEPHON bold, Will save us trial what the least can doe Single against thee wicked, and thence weak. The Fiend repli'd not, overcome with rage; But like a proud Steed reind, went hautie on, Chaumping his iron curb: to strive or flie He held it vain; awe from above had quelld His heart, not else dismai'd. Now drew they nigh The western point, where those half-rounding guards Just met, & closing stood in squadron joind Awaiting next command. To whom thir Chief GABRIEL from the Front thus calld aloud. O friends, I hear the tread of nimble feet Hasting this way, and now by glimps discerne ITHURIEL and ZEPHON through the shade, And with them comes a third of Regal port, But faded splendor wan; who by his gate And fierce demeanour seems the Prince of Hell, Not likely to part hence without contest; Stand firm, for in his look defiance lours. He scarce had ended, when those two approachd And brief related whom they brought, wher found, How busied, in what form and posture coucht. To whom with stern regard thus GABRIEL spake. Why hast thou, SATAN, broke the bounds prescrib'd To thy transgressions, and disturbd the charge Of others, who approve not to transgress By thy example, but have power and right To question thy bold entrance on this place; Imploi'd it seems to violate sleep, and those Whose dwelling God hath planted here in bliss? To whom thus SATAN with contemptuous brow. GABRIEL, thou hadst in Heav'n th' esteem of wise, And such I held thee; but this question askt Puts me in doubt. Lives ther who loves his pain? Who would not, finding way, break loose from Hell, Though thither doomd? Thou wouldst thy self, no doubt, And boldly venture to whatever place Farthest from pain, where thou mightst hope to change Torment with ease, & soonest recompence Dole with delight, which in this place I sought; To thee no reason; who knowst only good, But evil hast not tri'd: and wilt object His will who bound us? let him surer barr His Iron Gates, if he intends our stay In that dark durance: thus much what was askt. The rest is true, they found me where they say; But that implies not violence or harme. Thus hee in scorn. The warlike Angel mov'd, Disdainfully half smiling thus repli'd. O loss of one in Heav'n to judge of wise, Since SATAN fell, whom follie overthrew, And now returns him from his prison scap't, Gravely in doubt whether to hold them wise Or not, who ask what boldness brought him hither Unlicenc't from his bounds in Hell prescrib'd; So wise he judges it to fly from pain However, and to scape his punishment. So judge thou still, presumptuous, till the wrauth, Which thou incurr'st by flying, meet thy flight Seavenfold, and scourge that wisdom back to Hell, Which taught thee yet no better, that no pain Can equal anger infinite provok't. But wherefore thou alone? wherefore with thee Came not all Hell broke loose? is pain to them Less pain, less to be fled, or thou then they Less hardie to endure? courageous Chief, The first in flight from pain, had'st thou alleg'd To thy deserted host this cause of flight, Thou surely hadst not come sole fugitive. To which the Fiend thus answerd frowning stern. Not that I less endure, or shrink from pain, Insulting Angel, well thou knowst I stood Thy fiercest, when in Battel to thy aide The blasting volied Thunder made all speed And seconded thy else not dreaded Spear. But still thy words at random, as before, Argue thy inexperience what behooves From hard assaies and ill successes past A faithful Leader, not to hazard all Through wayes of danger by himself untri'd. I therefore, I alone first undertook To wing the desolate Abyss, and spie This new created World, whereof in Hell Fame is not silent, here in hope to find Better abode, and my afflicted Powers To settle here on Earth, or in mid Aire; Though for possession put to try once more What thou and thy gay Legions dare against; Whose easier business were to serve thir Lord High up in Heav'n, with songs to hymne his Throne, And practis'd distances to cringe, not fight. To whom the warriour Angel soon repli'd. To say and strait unsay, pretending first Wise to flie pain, professing next the Spie, Argues no Leader, but a lyar trac't, SATAN, and couldst thou faithful add? O name, O sacred name of faithfulness profan'd! Faithful to whom? to thy rebellious crew? Armie of Fiends, fit body to fit head; Was this your discipline and faith ingag'd, Your military obedience, to dissolve Allegeance to th' acknowledg'd Power supream? And thou sly hypocrite, who now wouldst seem Patron of liberty, who more then thou Once fawn'd, and cring'd, and servilly ador'd Heav'ns awful Monarch? wherefore but in hope To dispossess him, and thy self to reigne? But mark what I arreede thee now, avant; Flie thither whence thou fledst: if from this houre Within these hallowd limits thou appeer, Back to th' infernal pit I drag thee chaind, And Seale thee so, as henceforth not to scorne The facil gates of hell too slightly barrd. So threatn'd hee, but SATAN to no threats Gave heed, but waxing more in rage repli'd. Then when I am thy captive talk of chaines, Proud limitarie Cherube, but ere then Farr heavier load thy self expect to feel From my prevailing arme, though Heavens King Ride on thy wings, and thou with thy Compeers, Us'd to the yoak, draw'st his triumphant wheels In progress through the rode of Heav'n Star-pav'd. While thus he spake, th' Angelic Squadron bright Turnd fierie red, sharpning in mooned hornes Thir Phalanx, and began to hemm him round With ported Spears, as thick as when a field Of CERES ripe for harvest waving bends Her bearded Grove of ears, which way the wind Swayes them; the careful Plowman doubting stands Least on the threshing floore his hopeful sheaves Prove chaff. On th' other side SATAN allarm'd Collecting all his might dilated stood, Like TENERIFF or ATLAS unremov'd: His stature reacht the Skie, and on his Crest Sat horror Plum'd; nor wanted in his graspe What seemd both Spear and Shield: now dreadful deeds Might have ensu'd, nor onely Paradise In this commotion, but the Starrie Cope Of Heav'n perhaps, or all the Elements At least had gon to rack, disturbd and torne With violence of this conflict, had not soon Th' Eternal to prevent such horrid fray Hung forth in Heav'n his golden Scales, yet seen Betwixt ASTREA and the SCORPION signe, Wherein all things created first he weighd, The pendulous round Earth with ballanc't Aire In counterpoise, now ponders all events, Battels and Realms: in these he put two weights The sequel each of parting and of fight; The latter quick up flew, and kickt the beam; Which GABRIEL spying, thus bespake the Fiend. SATAN, I know thy strength, and thou knowst mine, Neither our own but giv'n; what follie then To boast what Arms can doe, since thine no more Then Heav'n permits, nor mine, though doubld now To trample thee as mire: for proof look up, And read thy Lot in yon celestial Sign Where thou art weigh'd, & shown how light, how weak, If thou resist. The Fiend lookt up and knew His mounted scale aloft: nor more; but fled Murmuring, and with him fled the shades of night. THE END OF THE FOURTH BOOK. PARADISE LOST BOOK V. Now Morn her rosie steps in th' Eastern Clime Advancing, sow'd the Earth with Orient Pearle, When ADAM wak't, so customd, for his sleep Was Aerie light, from pure digestion bred, And temperat vapors bland, which th' only sound Of leaves and fuming rills, AURORA's fan, Lightly dispers'd, and the shrill Matin Song Of Birds on every bough; so much the more His wonder was to find unwak'nd EVE With Tresses discompos'd, and glowing Cheek, As through unquiet rest: he on his side Leaning half-rais'd, with looks of cordial Love Hung over her enamour'd, and beheld Beautie, which whether waking or asleep, Shot forth peculiar Graces; then with voice Milde, as when ZEPHYRUS on FLORA breathes, Her hand soft touching, whisperd thus. Awake My fairest, my espous'd, my latest found, Heav'ns last best gift, my ever new delight, Awake, the morning shines, and the fresh field Calls us, we lose the prime, to mark how spring Our tended Plants, how blows the Citron Grove, What drops the Myrrhe, & what the balmie Reed, How Nature paints her colours, how the Bee Sits on the Bloom extracting liquid sweet. Such whispering wak'd her, but with startl'd eye On ADAM, whom imbracing, thus she spake. O Sole in whom my thoughts find all repose, My Glorie, my Perfection, glad I see Thy face, and Morn return'd, for I this Night, Such night till this I never pass'd, have dream'd, If dream'd, not as I oft am wont, of thee, Works of day pass't, or morrows next designe, But of offence and trouble, which my mind Knew never till this irksom night; methought Close at mine ear one call'd me forth to walk With gentle voice, I thought it thine; it said, Why sleepst thou EVE? now is the pleasant time, The cool, the silent, save where silence yields To the night-warbling Bird, that now awake Tunes sweetest his love-labor'd song; now reignes Full Orb'd the Moon, and with more pleasing light Shadowie sets off the face of things; in vain, If none regard; Heav'n wakes with all his eyes, Whom to behold but thee, Natures desire, In whose sight all things joy, with ravishment Attracted by thy beauty still to gaze. I rose as at thy call, but found thee not; To find thee I directed then my walk; And on, methought, alone I pass'd through ways That brought me on a sudden to the Tree Of interdicted Knowledge: fair it seem'd, Much fairer to my Fancie then by day: And as I wondring lookt, beside it stood One shap'd & wing'd like one of those from Heav'n By us oft seen; his dewie locks distill'd Ambrosia; on that Tree he also gaz'd; And O fair Plant, said he, with fruit surcharg'd, Deigns none to ease thy load and taste thy sweet, Nor God, nor Man; is Knowledge so despis'd? Or envie, or what reserve forbids to taste? Forbid who will, none shall from me withhold Longer thy offerd good, why else set here? This said he paus'd not, but with ventrous Arme He pluckt, he tasted; mee damp horror chil'd At such bold words voucht with a deed so bold: But he thus overjoy'd, O Fruit Divine, Sweet of thy self, but much more sweet thus cropt, Forbidd'n here, it seems, as onely fit For Gods, yet able to make Gods of Men: And why not Gods of Men, since good, the more Communicated, more abundant growes, The Author not impair'd, but honourd more? Here, happie Creature, fair Angelic EVE, Partake thou also; happie though thou art, Happier thou mayst be, worthier canst not be: Taste this, and be henceforth among the Gods Thy self a Goddess, not to Earth confind, But somtimes in the Air, as wee, somtimes Ascend to Heav'n, by merit thine, and see What life the Gods live there, and such live thou. So saying, he drew nigh, and to me held, Even to my mouth of that same fruit held part Which he had pluckt; the pleasant savourie smell So quick'nd appetite, that I, methought, Could not but taste. Forthwith up to the Clouds With him I flew, and underneath beheld The Earth outstretcht immense, a prospect wide And various: wondring at my flight and change To this high exaltation; suddenly My Guide was gon, and I, me thought, sunk down, And fell asleep; but O how glad I wak'd To find this but a dream! Thus EVE her Night Related, and thus ADAM answerd sad. Best Image of my self and dearer half, The trouble of thy thoughts this night in sleep Affects me equally; nor can I like This uncouth dream, of evil sprung I fear; Yet evil whence? in thee can harbour none, Created pure. But know that in the Soule Are many lesser Faculties that serve Reason as chief; among these Fansie next Her office holds; of all external things, Which the five watchful Senses represent, She forms Imaginations, Aerie shapes, Which Reason joyning or disjoyning, frames All what we affirm or what deny, and call Our knowledge or opinion; then retires Into her private Cell when Nature rests. Oft in her absence mimic Fansie wakes To imitate her; but misjoyning shapes, Wilde work produces oft, and most in dreams, Ill matching words and deeds long past or late. Som such resemblances methinks I find Of our last Eevnings talk, in this thy dream, But with addition strange; yet be not sad. Evil into the mind of God or Man May come and go, so unapprov'd, and leave No spot or blame behind: Which gives me hope That what in sleep thou didst abhorr to dream, Waking thou never wilt consent to do. Be not disheart'nd then, nor cloud those looks That wont to be more chearful and serene Then when fair Morning first smiles on the World, And let us to our fresh imployments rise Among the Groves, the Fountains, and the Flours That open now thir choicest bosom'd smells Reservd from night, and kept for thee in store. So cheard he his fair Spouse, and she was cheard, But silently a gentle tear let fall From either eye, and wip'd them with her haire; Two other precious drops that ready stood, Each in thir chrystal sluce, hee ere they fell Kiss'd as the gracious signs of sweet remorse And pious awe, that feard to have offended. So all was cleard, and to the Field they haste. But first from under shadie arborous roof, Soon as they forth were come to open sight Of day-spring, and the Sun, who scarce up risen With wheels yet hov'ring o're the Ocean brim, Shot paralel to the earth his dewie ray, Discovering in wide Lantskip all the East Of Paradise and EDENS happie Plains, Lowly they bow'd adoring, and began Thir Orisons, each Morning duly paid In various style, for neither various style Nor holy rapture wanted they to praise Thir Maker, in fit strains pronounc't or sung Unmeditated, such prompt eloquence Flowd from thir lips, in Prose or numerous Verse, More tuneable then needed Lute or Harp To add more sweetness, and they thus began. These are thy glorious works, Parent of good, Almightie, thine this universal Frame, Thus wondrous fair; thy self how wondrous then! Unspeakable, who sitst above these Heavens To us invisible or dimly seen In these thy lowest works, yet these declare Thy goodness beyond thought, and Power Divine: Speak yee who best can tell, ye Sons of light, Angels, for yee behold him, and with songs And choral symphonies, Day without Night, Circle his Throne rejoycing, yee in Heav'n, On Earth joyn all yee Creatures to extoll Him first, him last, him midst, and without end. Fairest of Starrs, last in the train of Night, If better thou belong not to the dawn, Sure pledge of day, that crownst the smiling Morn With thy bright Circlet, praise him in thy Spheare While day arises, that sweet hour of Prime. Thou Sun, of this great World both Eye and Soule, Acknowledge him thy Greater, sound his praise In thy eternal course, both when thou climb'st, And when high Noon hast gaind, & when thou fallst. Moon, that now meetst the orient Sun, now fli'st With the fixt Starrs, fixt in thir Orb that flies, And yee five other wandring Fires that move In mystic Dance not without Song, resound His praise, who out of Darkness call'd up Light. Aire, and ye Elements the eldest birth Of Natures Womb, that in quaternion run Perpetual Circle, multiform; and mix And nourish all things, let your ceasless change Varie to our great Maker still new praise. Ye Mists and Exhalations that now rise From Hill or steaming Lake, duskie or grey, Till the Sun paint your fleecie skirts with Gold, In honour to the Worlds great Author rise, Whether to deck with Clouds the uncolourd skie, Or wet the thirstie Earth with falling showers, Rising or falling still advance his praise. His praise ye Winds, that from four Quarters blow, Breath soft or loud; and wave your tops, ye Pines, With every Plant, in sign of Worship wave. Fountains and yee, that warble, as ye flow, Melodious murmurs, warbling tune his praise. Joyn voices all ye living Souls, ye Birds, That singing up to Heaven Gate ascend, Bear on your wings and in your notes his praise; Yee that in Waters glide, and yee that walk The Earth, and stately tread, or lowly creep; Witness if I be silent, Morn or Eeven, To Hill, or Valley, Fountain, or fresh shade Made vocal by my Song, and taught his praise. Hail universal Lord, be bounteous still To give us onely good; and if the night Have gathered aught of evil or conceald, Disperse it, as now light dispels the dark. So pray'd they innocent, and to thir thoughts Firm peace recoverd soon and wonted calm. On to thir mornings rural work they haste Among sweet dewes and flours; where any row Of Fruit-trees overwoodie reachd too farr Thir pamperd boughes, and needed hands to check Fruitless imbraces: or they led the Vine To wed her Elm; she spous'd about him twines Her mariageable arms, and with her brings Her dowr th' adopted Clusters, to adorn His barren leaves. Them thus imploid beheld With pittie Heav'ns high King, and to him call'd RAPHAEL, the sociable Spirit, that deign'd To travel with TOBIAS, and secur'd His marriage with the seaventimes-wedded Maid. RAPHAEL, said hee, thou hear'st what stir on Earth SATAN from Hell scap't through the darksom Gulf Hath raisd in Paradise, and how disturbd This night the human pair, how he designes In them at once to ruin all mankind. Go therefore, half this day as friend with friend Converse with ADAM, in what Bowre or shade Thou find'st him from the heat of Noon retir'd, To respit his day-labour with repast, Or with repose; and such discourse bring on, As may advise him of his happie state, Happiness in his power left free to will, Left to his own free Will, his Will though free, Yet mutable; whence warne him to beware He swerve not too secure: tell him withall His danger, and from whom, what enemie Late falln himself from Heav'n, is plotting now The fall of others from like state of bliss; By violence, no, for that shall be withstood, But by deceit and lies; this let him know, Least wilfully transgressing he pretend Surprisal, unadmonisht, unforewarnd. So spake th' Eternal Father, and fulfilld All Justice: nor delaid the winged Saint After his charge receivd, but from among Thousand Celestial Ardors, where he stood Vaild with his gorgeous wings, up springing light Flew through the midst of Heav'n; th' angelic Quires On each hand parting, to his speed gave way Through all th' Empyreal road; till at the Gate Of Heav'n arriv'd, the gate self-opend wide On golden Hinges turning, as by work Divine the sov'ran Architect had fram'd. From hence, no cloud, or, to obstruct his sight, Starr interpos'd, however small he sees, Not unconform to other shining Globes, Earth and the Gard'n of God, with Cedars crownd Above all Hills. As when by night the Glass Of GALILEO, less assur'd, observes Imagind Lands and Regions in the Moon: Or Pilot from amidst the CYCLADES DELOS or SAMOS first appeering kenns A cloudy spot. Down thither prone in flight He speeds, and through the vast Ethereal Skie Sailes between worlds & worlds, with steddie wing Now on the polar windes, then with quick Fann Winnows the buxom Air; till within soare Of Towring Eagles, to all the Fowles he seems A PHOENIX, gaz'd by all, as that sole Bird When to enshrine his reliques in the Sun's Bright Temple, to AEGYPTIAN THEB'S he flies. At once on th' Eastern cliff of Paradise He lights, and to his proper shape returns A Seraph wingd; six wings he wore, to shade His lineaments Divine; the pair that clad Each shoulder broad, came mantling o're his brest With regal Ornament; the middle pair Girt like a Starrie Zone his waste, and round Skirted his loines and thighes with downie Gold And colours dipt in Heav'n; the third his feet Shaddowd from either heele with featherd maile Skie-tinctur'd grain. Like MAIA'S son he stood, And shook his Plumes, that Heav'nly fragrance filld The circuit wide. Strait knew him all the bands Of Angels under watch; and to his state, And to his message high in honour rise; For on som message high they guessd him bound. Thir glittering Tents he passd, and now is come Into the blissful field, through Groves of Myrrhe, And flouring Odours, Cassia, Nard, and Balme; A Wilderness of sweets; for Nature here Wantond as in her prime, and plaid at will Her Virgin Fancies, pouring forth more sweet, Wilde above rule or art; enormous bliss. Him through the spicie Forrest onward com ADAM discernd, as in the dore he sat Of his coole Bowre, while now the mounted Sun Shot down direct his fervid Raies, to warme Earths inmost womb, more warmth then ADAM need; And EVE within, due at her hour prepar'd For dinner savourie fruits, of taste to please True appetite, and not disrelish thirst Of nectarous draughts between, from milkie stream, Berrie or Grape: to whom thus ADAM call'd. Haste hither EVE, and worth thy sight behold Eastward among those Trees, what glorious shape Comes this way moving; seems another Morn Ris'n on mid-noon; som great behest from Heav'n To us perhaps he brings, and will voutsafe This day to be our Guest. But goe with speed, And what thy stores contain, bring

escap'd

How many times the word 'escap'd' appears in the text?

walk With Heav'nly touch of instrumental sounds In full harmonic number joind, thir songs Divide the night, and lift our thoughts to Heaven. Thus talking hand in hand alone they pass'd On to thir blissful Bower; it was a place Chos'n by the sovran Planter, when he fram'd All things to mans delightful use; the roofe Of thickest covert was inwoven shade Laurel and Mirtle, and what higher grew Of firm and fragrant leaf; on either side ACANTHUS, and each odorous bushie shrub Fenc'd up the verdant wall; each beauteous flour, IRIS all hues, Roses, and Gessamin Rear'd high thir flourisht heads between, and wrought Mosaic; underfoot the Violet, Crocus, and Hyacinth with rich inlay Broiderd the ground, more colour'd then with stone Of costliest Emblem: other Creature here Beast, Bird, Insect, or Worm durst enter none; Such was thir awe of man. In shadier Bower More sacred and sequesterd, though but feignd, PAN or SILVANUS never slept, nor Nymph, Nor FAUNUS haunted. Here in close recess With Flowers, Garlands, and sweet-smelling Herbs Espoused EVE deckt first her Nuptial Bed, And heav'nly Quires the Hymenaean sung, What day the genial Angel to our Sire Brought her in naked beauty more adorn'd, More lovely then PANDORA, whom the Gods Endowd with all thir gifts, and O too like In sad event, when to the unwiser Son Of JAPHET brought by HERMES, she ensnar'd Mankind with her faire looks, to be aveng'd On him who had stole JOVES authentic fire. Thus at thir shadie Lodge arriv'd, both stood, Both turnd, and under op'n Skie ador'd The God that made both Skie, Air, Earth & Heav'n Which they beheld, the Moons resplendent Globe And starrie Pole: Thou also mad'st the Night, Maker Omnipotent, and thou the Day, Which we in our appointed work imployd Have finisht happie in our mutual help And mutual love, the Crown of all our bliss Ordain'd by thee, and this delicious place For us too large, where thy abundance wants Partakers, and uncropt falls to the ground. But thou hast promis'd from us two a Race To fill the Earth, who shall with us extoll Thy goodness infinite, both when we wake, And when we seek, as now, thy gift of sleep. This said unanimous, and other Rites Observing none, but adoration pure Which God likes best, into thir inmost bower Handed they went; and eas'd the putting off These troublesom disguises which wee wear, Strait side by side were laid, nor turnd I weene ADAM from his fair Spouse, nor EVE the Rites Mysterious of connubial Love refus'd: Whatever Hypocrites austerely talk Of puritie and place and innocence, Defaming as impure what God declares Pure, and commands to som, leaves free to all. Our Maker bids increase, who bids abstain But our Destroyer, foe to God and Man? Haile wedded Love, mysterious Law, true source Of human ofspring, sole proprietie, In Paradise of all things common else. By thee adulterous lust was driv'n from men Among the bestial herds to raunge, by thee Founded in Reason, Loyal, Just, and Pure, Relations dear, and all the Charities Of Father, Son, and Brother first were known. Farr be it, that I should write thee sin or blame, Or think thee unbefitting holiest place, Perpetual Fountain of Domestic sweets, Whose Bed is undefil'd and chast pronounc't, Present, or past, as Saints and Patriarchs us'd. Here Love his golden shafts imploies, here lights His constant Lamp, and waves his purple wings, Reigns here and revels; not in the bought smile Of Harlots, loveless, joyless, unindeard, Casual fruition, nor in Court Amours Mixt Dance, or wanton Mask, or Midnight Bal, Or Serenate, which the starv'd Lover sings To his proud fair, best quitted with disdain. These lulld by Nightingales imbraceing slept, And on thir naked limbs the flourie roof Showrd Roses, which the Morn repair'd. Sleep on, Blest pair; and O yet happiest if ye seek No happier state, and know to know no more. Now had night measur'd with her shaddowie Cone Half way up Hill this vast Sublunar Vault, And from thir Ivorie Port the Cherubim Forth issuing at th' accustomd hour stood armd To thir night watches in warlike Parade, When GABRIEL to his next in power thus spake. UZZIEL, half these draw off, and coast the South With strictest watch; these other wheel the North, Our circuit meets full West. As flame they part Half wheeling to the Shield, half to the Spear. From these, two strong and suttle Spirits he calld That neer him stood, and gave them thus in charge. ITHURIEL and ZEPHON, with wingd speed Search through this Garden, leav unsearcht no nook, But chiefly where those two fair Creatures Lodge, Now laid perhaps asleep secure of harme. This Eevning from the Sun's decline arriv'd Who tells of som infernal Spirit seen Hitherward bent (who could have thought?) escap'd The barrs of Hell, on errand bad no doubt: Such where ye find, seise fast, and hither bring. So saying, on he led his radiant Files, Daz'ling the Moon; these to the Bower direct In search of whom they sought: him there they found Squat like a Toad, close at the eare of EVE; Assaying by his Devilish art to reach The Organs of her Fancie, and with them forge Illusions as he list, Phantasms and Dreams, Or if, inspiring venom, he might taint Th' animal Spirits that from pure blood arise Like gentle breaths from Rivers pure, thence raise At least distemperd, discontented thoughts, Vain hopes, vain aimes, inordinate desires Blown up with high conceits ingendring pride. Him thus intent ITHURIEL with his Spear Touch'd lightly; for no falshood can endure Touch of Celestial temper, but returns Of force to its own likeness: up he starts Discoverd and surpriz'd. As when a spark Lights on a heap of nitrous Powder, laid Fit for the Tun som Magazin to store Against a rumord Warr, the Smuttie graine With sudden blaze diffus'd, inflames the Aire: So started up in his own shape the Fiend. Back stept those two fair Angels half amaz'd So sudden to behold the grieslie King; Yet thus, unmovd with fear, accost him soon. Which of those rebell Spirits adjudg'd to Hell Com'st thou, escap'd thy prison, and transform'd, Why satst thou like an enemie in waite Here watching at the head of these that sleep? Know ye not then said SATAN, filld with scorn, Know ye not me? ye knew me once no mate For you, there sitting where ye durst not soare; Not to know mee argues your selves unknown, The lowest of your throng; or if ye know, Why ask ye, and superfluous begin Your message, like to end as much in vain? To whom thus ZEPHON, answering scorn with scorn. Think not, revolted Spirit, thy shape the same, Or undiminisht brightness, to be known As when thou stoodst in Heav'n upright and pure; That Glorie then, when thou no more wast good, Departed from thee, and thou resembl'st now Thy sin and place of doom obscure and foule. But come, for thou, be sure, shalt give account To him who sent us, whose charge is to keep This place inviolable, and these from harm. So spake the Cherube, and his grave rebuke Severe in youthful beautie, added grace Invincible: abasht the Devil stood, And felt how awful goodness is, and saw Vertue in her shape how lovly, saw, and pin'd His loss; but chiefly to find here observd His lustre visibly impar'd; yet seemd Undaunted. If I must contend, said he, Best with the best, the Sender not the sent, Or all at once; more glorie will be wonn, Or less be lost. Thy fear, said ZEPHON bold, Will save us trial what the least can doe Single against thee wicked, and thence weak. The Fiend repli'd not, overcome with rage; But like a proud Steed reind, went hautie on, Chaumping his iron curb: to strive or flie He held it vain; awe from above had quelld His heart, not else dismai'd. Now drew they nigh The western point, where those half-rounding guards Just met, & closing stood in squadron joind Awaiting next command. To whom thir Chief GABRIEL from the Front thus calld aloud. O friends, I hear the tread of nimble feet Hasting this way, and now by glimps discerne ITHURIEL and ZEPHON through the shade, And with them comes a third of Regal port, But faded splendor wan; who by his gate And fierce demeanour seems the Prince of Hell, Not likely to part hence without contest; Stand firm, for in his look defiance lours. He scarce had ended, when those two approachd And brief related whom they brought, wher found, How busied, in what form and posture coucht. To whom with stern regard thus GABRIEL spake. Why hast thou, SATAN, broke the bounds prescrib'd To thy transgressions, and disturbd the charge Of others, who approve not to transgress By thy example, but have power and right To question thy bold entrance on this place; Imploi'd it seems to violate sleep, and those Whose dwelling God hath planted here in bliss? To whom thus SATAN with contemptuous brow. GABRIEL, thou hadst in Heav'n th' esteem of wise, And such I held thee; but this question askt Puts me in doubt. Lives ther who loves his pain? Who would not, finding way, break loose from Hell, Though thither doomd? Thou wouldst thy self, no doubt, And boldly venture to whatever place Farthest from pain, where thou mightst hope to change Torment with ease, & soonest recompence Dole with delight, which in this place I sought; To thee no reason; who knowst only good, But evil hast not tri'd: and wilt object His will who bound us? let him surer barr His Iron Gates, if he intends our stay In that dark durance: thus much what was askt. The rest is true, they found me where they say; But that implies not violence or harme. Thus hee in scorn. The warlike Angel mov'd, Disdainfully half smiling thus repli'd. O loss of one in Heav'n to judge of wise, Since SATAN fell, whom follie overthrew, And now returns him from his prison scap't, Gravely in doubt whether to hold them wise Or not, who ask what boldness brought him hither Unlicenc't from his bounds in Hell prescrib'd; So wise he judges it to fly from pain However, and to scape his punishment. So judge thou still, presumptuous, till the wrauth, Which thou incurr'st by flying, meet thy flight Seavenfold, and scourge that wisdom back to Hell, Which taught thee yet no better, that no pain Can equal anger infinite provok't. But wherefore thou alone? wherefore with thee Came not all Hell broke loose? is pain to them Less pain, less to be fled, or thou then they Less hardie to endure? courageous Chief, The first in flight from pain, had'st thou alleg'd To thy deserted host this cause of flight, Thou surely hadst not come sole fugitive. To which the Fiend thus answerd frowning stern. Not that I less endure, or shrink from pain, Insulting Angel, well thou knowst I stood Thy fiercest, when in Battel to thy aide The blasting volied Thunder made all speed And seconded thy else not dreaded Spear. But still thy words at random, as before, Argue thy inexperience what behooves From hard assaies and ill successes past A faithful Leader, not to hazard all Through wayes of danger by himself untri'd. I therefore, I alone first undertook To wing the desolate Abyss, and spie This new created World, whereof in Hell Fame is not silent, here in hope to find Better abode, and my afflicted Powers To settle here on Earth, or in mid Aire; Though for possession put to try once more What thou and thy gay Legions dare against; Whose easier business were to serve thir Lord High up in Heav'n, with songs to hymne his Throne, And practis'd distances to cringe, not fight. To whom the warriour Angel soon repli'd. To say and strait unsay, pretending first Wise to flie pain, professing next the Spie, Argues no Leader, but a lyar trac't, SATAN, and couldst thou faithful add? O name, O sacred name of faithfulness profan'd! Faithful to whom? to thy rebellious crew? Armie of Fiends, fit body to fit head; Was this your discipline and faith ingag'd, Your military obedience, to dissolve Allegeance to th' acknowledg'd Power supream? And thou sly hypocrite, who now wouldst seem Patron of liberty, who more then thou Once fawn'd, and cring'd, and servilly ador'd Heav'ns awful Monarch? wherefore but in hope To dispossess him, and thy self to reigne? But mark what I arreede thee now, avant; Flie thither whence thou fledst: if from this houre Within these hallowd limits thou appeer, Back to th' infernal pit I drag thee chaind, And Seale thee so, as henceforth not to scorne The facil gates of hell too slightly barrd. So threatn'd hee, but SATAN to no threats Gave heed, but waxing more in rage repli'd. Then when I am thy captive talk of chaines, Proud limitarie Cherube, but ere then Farr heavier load thy self expect to feel From my prevailing arme, though Heavens King Ride on thy wings, and thou with thy Compeers, Us'd to the yoak, draw'st his triumphant wheels In progress through the rode of Heav'n Star-pav'd. While thus he spake, th' Angelic Squadron bright Turnd fierie red, sharpning in mooned hornes Thir Phalanx, and began to hemm him round With ported Spears, as thick as when a field Of CERES ripe for harvest waving bends Her bearded Grove of ears, which way the wind Swayes them; the careful Plowman doubting stands Least on the threshing floore his hopeful sheaves Prove chaff. On th' other side SATAN allarm'd Collecting all his might dilated stood, Like TENERIFF or ATLAS unremov'd: His stature reacht the Skie, and on his Crest Sat horror Plum'd; nor wanted in his graspe What seemd both Spear and Shield: now dreadful deeds Might have ensu'd, nor onely Paradise In this commotion, but the Starrie Cope Of Heav'n perhaps, or all the Elements At least had gon to rack, disturbd and torne With violence of this conflict, had not soon Th' Eternal to prevent such horrid fray Hung forth in Heav'n his golden Scales, yet seen Betwixt ASTREA and the SCORPION signe, Wherein all things created first he weighd, The pendulous round Earth with ballanc't Aire In counterpoise, now ponders all events, Battels and Realms: in these he put two weights The sequel each of parting and of fight; The latter quick up flew, and kickt the beam; Which GABRIEL spying, thus bespake the Fiend. SATAN, I know thy strength, and thou knowst mine, Neither our own but giv'n; what follie then To boast what Arms can doe, since thine no more Then Heav'n permits, nor mine, though doubld now To trample thee as mire: for proof look up, And read thy Lot in yon celestial Sign Where thou art weigh'd, & shown how light, how weak, If thou resist. The Fiend lookt up and knew His mounted scale aloft: nor more; but fled Murmuring, and with him fled the shades of night. THE END OF THE FOURTH BOOK. PARADISE LOST BOOK V. Now Morn her rosie steps in th' Eastern Clime Advancing, sow'd the Earth with Orient Pearle, When ADAM wak't, so customd, for his sleep Was Aerie light, from pure digestion bred, And temperat vapors bland, which th' only sound Of leaves and fuming rills, AURORA's fan, Lightly dispers'd, and the shrill Matin Song Of Birds on every bough; so much the more His wonder was to find unwak'nd EVE With Tresses discompos'd, and glowing Cheek, As through unquiet rest: he on his side Leaning half-rais'd, with looks of cordial Love Hung over her enamour'd, and beheld Beautie, which whether waking or asleep, Shot forth peculiar Graces; then with voice Milde, as when ZEPHYRUS on FLORA breathes, Her hand soft touching, whisperd thus. Awake My fairest, my espous'd, my latest found, Heav'ns last best gift, my ever new delight, Awake, the morning shines, and the fresh field Calls us, we lose the prime, to mark how spring Our tended Plants, how blows the Citron Grove, What drops the Myrrhe, & what the balmie Reed, How Nature paints her colours, how the Bee Sits on the Bloom extracting liquid sweet. Such whispering wak'd her, but with startl'd eye On ADAM, whom imbracing, thus she spake. O Sole in whom my thoughts find all repose, My Glorie, my Perfection, glad I see Thy face, and Morn return'd, for I this Night, Such night till this I never pass'd, have dream'd, If dream'd, not as I oft am wont, of thee, Works of day pass't, or morrows next designe, But of offence and trouble, which my mind Knew never till this irksom night; methought Close at mine ear one call'd me forth to walk With gentle voice, I thought it thine; it said, Why sleepst thou EVE? now is the pleasant time, The cool, the silent, save where silence yields To the night-warbling Bird, that now awake Tunes sweetest his love-labor'd song; now reignes Full Orb'd the Moon, and with more pleasing light Shadowie sets off the face of things; in vain, If none regard; Heav'n wakes with all his eyes, Whom to behold but thee, Natures desire, In whose sight all things joy, with ravishment Attracted by thy beauty still to gaze. I rose as at thy call, but found thee not; To find thee I directed then my walk; And on, methought, alone I pass'd through ways That brought me on a sudden to the Tree Of interdicted Knowledge: fair it seem'd, Much fairer to my Fancie then by day: And as I wondring lookt, beside it stood One shap'd & wing'd like one of those from Heav'n By us oft seen; his dewie locks distill'd Ambrosia; on that Tree he also gaz'd; And O fair Plant, said he, with fruit surcharg'd, Deigns none to ease thy load and taste thy sweet, Nor God, nor Man; is Knowledge so despis'd? Or envie, or what reserve forbids to taste? Forbid who will, none shall from me withhold Longer thy offerd good, why else set here? This said he paus'd not, but with ventrous Arme He pluckt, he tasted; mee damp horror chil'd At such bold words voucht with a deed so bold: But he thus overjoy'd, O Fruit Divine, Sweet of thy self, but much more sweet thus cropt, Forbidd'n here, it seems, as onely fit For Gods, yet able to make Gods of Men: And why not Gods of Men, since good, the more Communicated, more abundant growes, The Author not impair'd, but honourd more? Here, happie Creature, fair Angelic EVE, Partake thou also; happie though thou art, Happier thou mayst be, worthier canst not be: Taste this, and be henceforth among the Gods Thy self a Goddess, not to Earth confind, But somtimes in the Air, as wee, somtimes Ascend to Heav'n, by merit thine, and see What life the Gods live there, and such live thou. So saying, he drew nigh, and to me held, Even to my mouth of that same fruit held part Which he had pluckt; the pleasant savourie smell So quick'nd appetite, that I, methought, Could not but taste. Forthwith up to the Clouds With him I flew, and underneath beheld The Earth outstretcht immense, a prospect wide And various: wondring at my flight and change To this high exaltation; suddenly My Guide was gon, and I, me thought, sunk down, And fell asleep; but O how glad I wak'd To find this but a dream! Thus EVE her Night Related, and thus ADAM answerd sad. Best Image of my self and dearer half, The trouble of thy thoughts this night in sleep Affects me equally; nor can I like This uncouth dream, of evil sprung I fear; Yet evil whence? in thee can harbour none, Created pure. But know that in the Soule Are many lesser Faculties that serve Reason as chief; among these Fansie next Her office holds; of all external things, Which the five watchful Senses represent, She forms Imaginations, Aerie shapes, Which Reason joyning or disjoyning, frames All what we affirm or what deny, and call Our knowledge or opinion; then retires Into her private Cell when Nature rests. Oft in her absence mimic Fansie wakes To imitate her; but misjoyning shapes, Wilde work produces oft, and most in dreams, Ill matching words and deeds long past or late. Som such resemblances methinks I find Of our last Eevnings talk, in this thy dream, But with addition strange; yet be not sad. Evil into the mind of God or Man May come and go, so unapprov'd, and leave No spot or blame behind: Which gives me hope That what in sleep thou didst abhorr to dream, Waking thou never wilt consent to do. Be not disheart'nd then, nor cloud those looks That wont to be more chearful and serene Then when fair Morning first smiles on the World, And let us to our fresh imployments rise Among the Groves, the Fountains, and the Flours That open now thir choicest bosom'd smells Reservd from night, and kept for thee in store. So cheard he his fair Spouse, and she was cheard, But silently a gentle tear let fall From either eye, and wip'd them with her haire; Two other precious drops that ready stood, Each in thir chrystal sluce, hee ere they fell Kiss'd as the gracious signs of sweet remorse And pious awe, that feard to have offended. So all was cleard, and to the Field they haste. But first from under shadie arborous roof, Soon as they forth were come to open sight Of day-spring, and the Sun, who scarce up risen With wheels yet hov'ring o're the Ocean brim, Shot paralel to the earth his dewie ray, Discovering in wide Lantskip all the East Of Paradise and EDENS happie Plains, Lowly they bow'd adoring, and began Thir Orisons, each Morning duly paid In various style, for neither various style Nor holy rapture wanted they to praise Thir Maker, in fit strains pronounc't or sung Unmeditated, such prompt eloquence Flowd from thir lips, in Prose or numerous Verse, More tuneable then needed Lute or Harp To add more sweetness, and they thus began. These are thy glorious works, Parent of good, Almightie, thine this universal Frame, Thus wondrous fair; thy self how wondrous then! Unspeakable, who sitst above these Heavens To us invisible or dimly seen In these thy lowest works, yet these declare Thy goodness beyond thought, and Power Divine: Speak yee who best can tell, ye Sons of light, Angels, for yee behold him, and with songs And choral symphonies, Day without Night, Circle his Throne rejoycing, yee in Heav'n, On Earth joyn all yee Creatures to extoll Him first, him last, him midst, and without end. Fairest of Starrs, last in the train of Night, If better thou belong not to the dawn, Sure pledge of day, that crownst the smiling Morn With thy bright Circlet, praise him in thy Spheare While day arises, that sweet hour of Prime. Thou Sun, of this great World both Eye and Soule, Acknowledge him thy Greater, sound his praise In thy eternal course, both when thou climb'st, And when high Noon hast gaind, & when thou fallst. Moon, that now meetst the orient Sun, now fli'st With the fixt Starrs, fixt in thir Orb that flies, And yee five other wandring Fires that move In mystic Dance not without Song, resound His praise, who out of Darkness call'd up Light. Aire, and ye Elements the eldest birth Of Natures Womb, that in quaternion run Perpetual Circle, multiform; and mix And nourish all things, let your ceasless change Varie to our great Maker still new praise. Ye Mists and Exhalations that now rise From Hill or steaming Lake, duskie or grey, Till the Sun paint your fleecie skirts with Gold, In honour to the Worlds great Author rise, Whether to deck with Clouds the uncolourd skie, Or wet the thirstie Earth with falling showers, Rising or falling still advance his praise. His praise ye Winds, that from four Quarters blow, Breath soft or loud; and wave your tops, ye Pines, With every Plant, in sign of Worship wave. Fountains and yee, that warble, as ye flow, Melodious murmurs, warbling tune his praise. Joyn voices all ye living Souls, ye Birds, That singing up to Heaven Gate ascend, Bear on your wings and in your notes his praise; Yee that in Waters glide, and yee that walk The Earth, and stately tread, or lowly creep; Witness if I be silent, Morn or Eeven, To Hill, or Valley, Fountain, or fresh shade Made vocal by my Song, and taught his praise. Hail universal Lord, be bounteous still To give us onely good; and if the night Have gathered aught of evil or conceald, Disperse it, as now light dispels the dark. So pray'd they innocent, and to thir thoughts Firm peace recoverd soon and wonted calm. On to thir mornings rural work they haste Among sweet dewes and flours; where any row Of Fruit-trees overwoodie reachd too farr Thir pamperd boughes, and needed hands to check Fruitless imbraces: or they led the Vine To wed her Elm; she spous'd about him twines Her mariageable arms, and with her brings Her dowr th' adopted Clusters, to adorn His barren leaves. Them thus imploid beheld With pittie Heav'ns high King, and to him call'd RAPHAEL, the sociable Spirit, that deign'd To travel with TOBIAS, and secur'd His marriage with the seaventimes-wedded Maid. RAPHAEL, said hee, thou hear'st what stir on Earth SATAN from Hell scap't through the darksom Gulf Hath raisd in Paradise, and how disturbd This night the human pair, how he designes In them at once to ruin all mankind. Go therefore, half this day as friend with friend Converse with ADAM, in what Bowre or shade Thou find'st him from the heat of Noon retir'd, To respit his day-labour with repast, Or with repose; and such discourse bring on, As may advise him of his happie state, Happiness in his power left free to will, Left to his own free Will, his Will though free, Yet mutable; whence warne him to beware He swerve not too secure: tell him withall His danger, and from whom, what enemie Late falln himself from Heav'n, is plotting now The fall of others from like state of bliss; By violence, no, for that shall be withstood, But by deceit and lies; this let him know, Least wilfully transgressing he pretend Surprisal, unadmonisht, unforewarnd. So spake th' Eternal Father, and fulfilld All Justice: nor delaid the winged Saint After his charge receivd, but from among Thousand Celestial Ardors, where he stood Vaild with his gorgeous wings, up springing light Flew through the midst of Heav'n; th' angelic Quires On each hand parting, to his speed gave way Through all th' Empyreal road; till at the Gate Of Heav'n arriv'd, the gate self-opend wide On golden Hinges turning, as by work Divine the sov'ran Architect had fram'd. From hence, no cloud, or, to obstruct his sight, Starr interpos'd, however small he sees, Not unconform to other shining Globes, Earth and the Gard'n of God, with Cedars crownd Above all Hills. As when by night the Glass Of GALILEO, less assur'd, observes Imagind Lands and Regions in the Moon: Or Pilot from amidst the CYCLADES DELOS or SAMOS first appeering kenns A cloudy spot. Down thither prone in flight He speeds, and through the vast Ethereal Skie Sailes between worlds & worlds, with steddie wing Now on the polar windes, then with quick Fann Winnows the buxom Air; till within soare Of Towring Eagles, to all the Fowles he seems A PHOENIX, gaz'd by all, as that sole Bird When to enshrine his reliques in the Sun's Bright Temple, to AEGYPTIAN THEB'S he flies. At once on th' Eastern cliff of Paradise He lights, and to his proper shape returns A Seraph wingd; six wings he wore, to shade His lineaments Divine; the pair that clad Each shoulder broad, came mantling o're his brest With regal Ornament; the middle pair Girt like a Starrie Zone his waste, and round Skirted his loines and thighes with downie Gold And colours dipt in Heav'n; the third his feet Shaddowd from either heele with featherd maile Skie-tinctur'd grain. Like MAIA'S son he stood, And shook his Plumes, that Heav'nly fragrance filld The circuit wide. Strait knew him all the bands Of Angels under watch; and to his state, And to his message high in honour rise; For on som message high they guessd him bound. Thir glittering Tents he passd, and now is come Into the blissful field, through Groves of Myrrhe, And flouring Odours, Cassia, Nard, and Balme; A Wilderness of sweets; for Nature here Wantond as in her prime, and plaid at will Her Virgin Fancies, pouring forth more sweet, Wilde above rule or art; enormous bliss. Him through the spicie Forrest onward com ADAM discernd, as in the dore he sat Of his coole Bowre, while now the mounted Sun Shot down direct his fervid Raies, to warme Earths inmost womb, more warmth then ADAM need; And EVE within, due at her hour prepar'd For dinner savourie fruits, of taste to please True appetite, and not disrelish thirst Of nectarous draughts between, from milkie stream, Berrie or Grape: to whom thus ADAM call'd. Haste hither EVE, and worth thy sight behold Eastward among those Trees, what glorious shape Comes this way moving; seems another Morn Ris'n on mid-noon; som great behest from Heav'n To us perhaps he brings, and will voutsafe This day to be our Guest. But goe with speed, And what thy stores contain, bring

men

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

walk With Heav'nly touch of instrumental sounds In full harmonic number joind, thir songs Divide the night, and lift our thoughts to Heaven. Thus talking hand in hand alone they pass'd On to thir blissful Bower; it was a place Chos'n by the sovran Planter, when he fram'd All things to mans delightful use; the roofe Of thickest covert was inwoven shade Laurel and Mirtle, and what higher grew Of firm and fragrant leaf; on either side ACANTHUS, and each odorous bushie shrub Fenc'd up the verdant wall; each beauteous flour, IRIS all hues, Roses, and Gessamin Rear'd high thir flourisht heads between, and wrought Mosaic; underfoot the Violet, Crocus, and Hyacinth with rich inlay Broiderd the ground, more colour'd then with stone Of costliest Emblem: other Creature here Beast, Bird, Insect, or Worm durst enter none; Such was thir awe of man. In shadier Bower More sacred and sequesterd, though but feignd, PAN or SILVANUS never slept, nor Nymph, Nor FAUNUS haunted. Here in close recess With Flowers, Garlands, and sweet-smelling Herbs Espoused EVE deckt first her Nuptial Bed, And heav'nly Quires the Hymenaean sung, What day the genial Angel to our Sire Brought her in naked beauty more adorn'd, More lovely then PANDORA, whom the Gods Endowd with all thir gifts, and O too like In sad event, when to the unwiser Son Of JAPHET brought by HERMES, she ensnar'd Mankind with her faire looks, to be aveng'd On him who had stole JOVES authentic fire. Thus at thir shadie Lodge arriv'd, both stood, Both turnd, and under op'n Skie ador'd The God that made both Skie, Air, Earth & Heav'n Which they beheld, the Moons resplendent Globe And starrie Pole: Thou also mad'st the Night, Maker Omnipotent, and thou the Day, Which we in our appointed work imployd Have finisht happie in our mutual help And mutual love, the Crown of all our bliss Ordain'd by thee, and this delicious place For us too large, where thy abundance wants Partakers, and uncropt falls to the ground. But thou hast promis'd from us two a Race To fill the Earth, who shall with us extoll Thy goodness infinite, both when we wake, And when we seek, as now, thy gift of sleep. This said unanimous, and other Rites Observing none, but adoration pure Which God likes best, into thir inmost bower Handed they went; and eas'd the putting off These troublesom disguises which wee wear, Strait side by side were laid, nor turnd I weene ADAM from his fair Spouse, nor EVE the Rites Mysterious of connubial Love refus'd: Whatever Hypocrites austerely talk Of puritie and place and innocence, Defaming as impure what God declares Pure, and commands to som, leaves free to all. Our Maker bids increase, who bids abstain But our Destroyer, foe to God and Man? Haile wedded Love, mysterious Law, true source Of human ofspring, sole proprietie, In Paradise of all things common else. By thee adulterous lust was driv'n from men Among the bestial herds to raunge, by thee Founded in Reason, Loyal, Just, and Pure, Relations dear, and all the Charities Of Father, Son, and Brother first were known. Farr be it, that I should write thee sin or blame, Or think thee unbefitting holiest place, Perpetual Fountain of Domestic sweets, Whose Bed is undefil'd and chast pronounc't, Present, or past, as Saints and Patriarchs us'd. Here Love his golden shafts imploies, here lights His constant Lamp, and waves his purple wings, Reigns here and revels; not in the bought smile Of Harlots, loveless, joyless, unindeard, Casual fruition, nor in Court Amours Mixt Dance, or wanton Mask, or Midnight Bal, Or Serenate, which the starv'd Lover sings To his proud fair, best quitted with disdain. These lulld by Nightingales imbraceing slept, And on thir naked limbs the flourie roof Showrd Roses, which the Morn repair'd. Sleep on, Blest pair; and O yet happiest if ye seek No happier state, and know to know no more. Now had night measur'd with her shaddowie Cone Half way up Hill this vast Sublunar Vault, And from thir Ivorie Port the Cherubim Forth issuing at th' accustomd hour stood armd To thir night watches in warlike Parade, When GABRIEL to his next in power thus spake. UZZIEL, half these draw off, and coast the South With strictest watch; these other wheel the North, Our circuit meets full West. As flame they part Half wheeling to the Shield, half to the Spear. From these, two strong and suttle Spirits he calld That neer him stood, and gave them thus in charge. ITHURIEL and ZEPHON, with wingd speed Search through this Garden, leav unsearcht no nook, But chiefly where those two fair Creatures Lodge, Now laid perhaps asleep secure of harme. This Eevning from the Sun's decline arriv'd Who tells of som infernal Spirit seen Hitherward bent (who could have thought?) escap'd The barrs of Hell, on errand bad no doubt: Such where ye find, seise fast, and hither bring. So saying, on he led his radiant Files, Daz'ling the Moon; these to the Bower direct In search of whom they sought: him there they found Squat like a Toad, close at the eare of EVE; Assaying by his Devilish art to reach The Organs of her Fancie, and with them forge Illusions as he list, Phantasms and Dreams, Or if, inspiring venom, he might taint Th' animal Spirits that from pure blood arise Like gentle breaths from Rivers pure, thence raise At least distemperd, discontented thoughts, Vain hopes, vain aimes, inordinate desires Blown up with high conceits ingendring pride. Him thus intent ITHURIEL with his Spear Touch'd lightly; for no falshood can endure Touch of Celestial temper, but returns Of force to its own likeness: up he starts Discoverd and surpriz'd. As when a spark Lights on a heap of nitrous Powder, laid Fit for the Tun som Magazin to store Against a rumord Warr, the Smuttie graine With sudden blaze diffus'd, inflames the Aire: So started up in his own shape the Fiend. Back stept those two fair Angels half amaz'd So sudden to behold the grieslie King; Yet thus, unmovd with fear, accost him soon. Which of those rebell Spirits adjudg'd to Hell Com'st thou, escap'd thy prison, and transform'd, Why satst thou like an enemie in waite Here watching at the head of these that sleep? Know ye not then said SATAN, filld with scorn, Know ye not me? ye knew me once no mate For you, there sitting where ye durst not soare; Not to know mee argues your selves unknown, The lowest of your throng; or if ye know, Why ask ye, and superfluous begin Your message, like to end as much in vain? To whom thus ZEPHON, answering scorn with scorn. Think not, revolted Spirit, thy shape the same, Or undiminisht brightness, to be known As when thou stoodst in Heav'n upright and pure; That Glorie then, when thou no more wast good, Departed from thee, and thou resembl'st now Thy sin and place of doom obscure and foule. But come, for thou, be sure, shalt give account To him who sent us, whose charge is to keep This place inviolable, and these from harm. So spake the Cherube, and his grave rebuke Severe in youthful beautie, added grace Invincible: abasht the Devil stood, And felt how awful goodness is, and saw Vertue in her shape how lovly, saw, and pin'd His loss; but chiefly to find here observd His lustre visibly impar'd; yet seemd Undaunted. If I must contend, said he, Best with the best, the Sender not the sent, Or all at once; more glorie will be wonn, Or less be lost. Thy fear, said ZEPHON bold, Will save us trial what the least can doe Single against thee wicked, and thence weak. The Fiend repli'd not, overcome with rage; But like a proud Steed reind, went hautie on, Chaumping his iron curb: to strive or flie He held it vain; awe from above had quelld His heart, not else dismai'd. Now drew they nigh The western point, where those half-rounding guards Just met, & closing stood in squadron joind Awaiting next command. To whom thir Chief GABRIEL from the Front thus calld aloud. O friends, I hear the tread of nimble feet Hasting this way, and now by glimps discerne ITHURIEL and ZEPHON through the shade, And with them comes a third of Regal port, But faded splendor wan; who by his gate And fierce demeanour seems the Prince of Hell, Not likely to part hence without contest; Stand firm, for in his look defiance lours. He scarce had ended, when those two approachd And brief related whom they brought, wher found, How busied, in what form and posture coucht. To whom with stern regard thus GABRIEL spake. Why hast thou, SATAN, broke the bounds prescrib'd To thy transgressions, and disturbd the charge Of others, who approve not to transgress By thy example, but have power and right To question thy bold entrance on this place; Imploi'd it seems to violate sleep, and those Whose dwelling God hath planted here in bliss? To whom thus SATAN with contemptuous brow. GABRIEL, thou hadst in Heav'n th' esteem of wise, And such I held thee; but this question askt Puts me in doubt. Lives ther who loves his pain? Who would not, finding way, break loose from Hell, Though thither doomd? Thou wouldst thy self, no doubt, And boldly venture to whatever place Farthest from pain, where thou mightst hope to change Torment with ease, & soonest recompence Dole with delight, which in this place I sought; To thee no reason; who knowst only good, But evil hast not tri'd: and wilt object His will who bound us? let him surer barr His Iron Gates, if he intends our stay In that dark durance: thus much what was askt. The rest is true, they found me where they say; But that implies not violence or harme. Thus hee in scorn. The warlike Angel mov'd, Disdainfully half smiling thus repli'd. O loss of one in Heav'n to judge of wise, Since SATAN fell, whom follie overthrew, And now returns him from his prison scap't, Gravely in doubt whether to hold them wise Or not, who ask what boldness brought him hither Unlicenc't from his bounds in Hell prescrib'd; So wise he judges it to fly from pain However, and to scape his punishment. So judge thou still, presumptuous, till the wrauth, Which thou incurr'st by flying, meet thy flight Seavenfold, and scourge that wisdom back to Hell, Which taught thee yet no better, that no pain Can equal anger infinite provok't. But wherefore thou alone? wherefore with thee Came not all Hell broke loose? is pain to them Less pain, less to be fled, or thou then they Less hardie to endure? courageous Chief, The first in flight from pain, had'st thou alleg'd To thy deserted host this cause of flight, Thou surely hadst not come sole fugitive. To which the Fiend thus answerd frowning stern. Not that I less endure, or shrink from pain, Insulting Angel, well thou knowst I stood Thy fiercest, when in Battel to thy aide The blasting volied Thunder made all speed And seconded thy else not dreaded Spear. But still thy words at random, as before, Argue thy inexperience what behooves From hard assaies and ill successes past A faithful Leader, not to hazard all Through wayes of danger by himself untri'd. I therefore, I alone first undertook To wing the desolate Abyss, and spie This new created World, whereof in Hell Fame is not silent, here in hope to find Better abode, and my afflicted Powers To settle here on Earth, or in mid Aire; Though for possession put to try once more What thou and thy gay Legions dare against; Whose easier business were to serve thir Lord High up in Heav'n, with songs to hymne his Throne, And practis'd distances to cringe, not fight. To whom the warriour Angel soon repli'd. To say and strait unsay, pretending first Wise to flie pain, professing next the Spie, Argues no Leader, but a lyar trac't, SATAN, and couldst thou faithful add? O name, O sacred name of faithfulness profan'd! Faithful to whom? to thy rebellious crew? Armie of Fiends, fit body to fit head; Was this your discipline and faith ingag'd, Your military obedience, to dissolve Allegeance to th' acknowledg'd Power supream? And thou sly hypocrite, who now wouldst seem Patron of liberty, who more then thou Once fawn'd, and cring'd, and servilly ador'd Heav'ns awful Monarch? wherefore but in hope To dispossess him, and thy self to reigne? But mark what I arreede thee now, avant; Flie thither whence thou fledst: if from this houre Within these hallowd limits thou appeer, Back to th' infernal pit I drag thee chaind, And Seale thee so, as henceforth not to scorne The facil gates of hell too slightly barrd. So threatn'd hee, but SATAN to no threats Gave heed, but waxing more in rage repli'd. Then when I am thy captive talk of chaines, Proud limitarie Cherube, but ere then Farr heavier load thy self expect to feel From my prevailing arme, though Heavens King Ride on thy wings, and thou with thy Compeers, Us'd to the yoak, draw'st his triumphant wheels In progress through the rode of Heav'n Star-pav'd. While thus he spake, th' Angelic Squadron bright Turnd fierie red, sharpning in mooned hornes Thir Phalanx, and began to hemm him round With ported Spears, as thick as when a field Of CERES ripe for harvest waving bends Her bearded Grove of ears, which way the wind Swayes them; the careful Plowman doubting stands Least on the threshing floore his hopeful sheaves Prove chaff. On th' other side SATAN allarm'd Collecting all his might dilated stood, Like TENERIFF or ATLAS unremov'd: His stature reacht the Skie, and on his Crest Sat horror Plum'd; nor wanted in his graspe What seemd both Spear and Shield: now dreadful deeds Might have ensu'd, nor onely Paradise In this commotion, but the Starrie Cope Of Heav'n perhaps, or all the Elements At least had gon to rack, disturbd and torne With violence of this conflict, had not soon Th' Eternal to prevent such horrid fray Hung forth in Heav'n his golden Scales, yet seen Betwixt ASTREA and the SCORPION signe, Wherein all things created first he weighd, The pendulous round Earth with ballanc't Aire In counterpoise, now ponders all events, Battels and Realms: in these he put two weights The sequel each of parting and of fight; The latter quick up flew, and kickt the beam; Which GABRIEL spying, thus bespake the Fiend. SATAN, I know thy strength, and thou knowst mine, Neither our own but giv'n; what follie then To boast what Arms can doe, since thine no more Then Heav'n permits, nor mine, though doubld now To trample thee as mire: for proof look up, And read thy Lot in yon celestial Sign Where thou art weigh'd, & shown how light, how weak, If thou resist. The Fiend lookt up and knew His mounted scale aloft: nor more; but fled Murmuring, and with him fled the shades of night. THE END OF THE FOURTH BOOK. PARADISE LOST BOOK V. Now Morn her rosie steps in th' Eastern Clime Advancing, sow'd the Earth with Orient Pearle, When ADAM wak't, so customd, for his sleep Was Aerie light, from pure digestion bred, And temperat vapors bland, which th' only sound Of leaves and fuming rills, AURORA's fan, Lightly dispers'd, and the shrill Matin Song Of Birds on every bough; so much the more His wonder was to find unwak'nd EVE With Tresses discompos'd, and glowing Cheek, As through unquiet rest: he on his side Leaning half-rais'd, with looks of cordial Love Hung over her enamour'd, and beheld Beautie, which whether waking or asleep, Shot forth peculiar Graces; then with voice Milde, as when ZEPHYRUS on FLORA breathes, Her hand soft touching, whisperd thus. Awake My fairest, my espous'd, my latest found, Heav'ns last best gift, my ever new delight, Awake, the morning shines, and the fresh field Calls us, we lose the prime, to mark how spring Our tended Plants, how blows the Citron Grove, What drops the Myrrhe, & what the balmie Reed, How Nature paints her colours, how the Bee Sits on the Bloom extracting liquid sweet. Such whispering wak'd her, but with startl'd eye On ADAM, whom imbracing, thus she spake. O Sole in whom my thoughts find all repose, My Glorie, my Perfection, glad I see Thy face, and Morn return'd, for I this Night, Such night till this I never pass'd, have dream'd, If dream'd, not as I oft am wont, of thee, Works of day pass't, or morrows next designe, But of offence and trouble, which my mind Knew never till this irksom night; methought Close at mine ear one call'd me forth to walk With gentle voice, I thought it thine; it said, Why sleepst thou EVE? now is the pleasant time, The cool, the silent, save where silence yields To the night-warbling Bird, that now awake Tunes sweetest his love-labor'd song; now reignes Full Orb'd the Moon, and with more pleasing light Shadowie sets off the face of things; in vain, If none regard; Heav'n wakes with all his eyes, Whom to behold but thee, Natures desire, In whose sight all things joy, with ravishment Attracted by thy beauty still to gaze. I rose as at thy call, but found thee not; To find thee I directed then my walk; And on, methought, alone I pass'd through ways That brought me on a sudden to the Tree Of interdicted Knowledge: fair it seem'd, Much fairer to my Fancie then by day: And as I wondring lookt, beside it stood One shap'd & wing'd like one of those from Heav'n By us oft seen; his dewie locks distill'd Ambrosia; on that Tree he also gaz'd; And O fair Plant, said he, with fruit surcharg'd, Deigns none to ease thy load and taste thy sweet, Nor God, nor Man; is Knowledge so despis'd? Or envie, or what reserve forbids to taste? Forbid who will, none shall from me withhold Longer thy offerd good, why else set here? This said he paus'd not, but with ventrous Arme He pluckt, he tasted; mee damp horror chil'd At such bold words voucht with a deed so bold: But he thus overjoy'd, O Fruit Divine, Sweet of thy self, but much more sweet thus cropt, Forbidd'n here, it seems, as onely fit For Gods, yet able to make Gods of Men: And why not Gods of Men, since good, the more Communicated, more abundant growes, The Author not impair'd, but honourd more? Here, happie Creature, fair Angelic EVE, Partake thou also; happie though thou art, Happier thou mayst be, worthier canst not be: Taste this, and be henceforth among the Gods Thy self a Goddess, not to Earth confind, But somtimes in the Air, as wee, somtimes Ascend to Heav'n, by merit thine, and see What life the Gods live there, and such live thou. So saying, he drew nigh, and to me held, Even to my mouth of that same fruit held part Which he had pluckt; the pleasant savourie smell So quick'nd appetite, that I, methought, Could not but taste. Forthwith up to the Clouds With him I flew, and underneath beheld The Earth outstretcht immense, a prospect wide And various: wondring at my flight and change To this high exaltation; suddenly My Guide was gon, and I, me thought, sunk down, And fell asleep; but O how glad I wak'd To find this but a dream! Thus EVE her Night Related, and thus ADAM answerd sad. Best Image of my self and dearer half, The trouble of thy thoughts this night in sleep Affects me equally; nor can I like This uncouth dream, of evil sprung I fear; Yet evil whence? in thee can harbour none, Created pure. But know that in the Soule Are many lesser Faculties that serve Reason as chief; among these Fansie next Her office holds; of all external things, Which the five watchful Senses represent, She forms Imaginations, Aerie shapes, Which Reason joyning or disjoyning, frames All what we affirm or what deny, and call Our knowledge or opinion; then retires Into her private Cell when Nature rests. Oft in her absence mimic Fansie wakes To imitate her; but misjoyning shapes, Wilde work produces oft, and most in dreams, Ill matching words and deeds long past or late. Som such resemblances methinks I find Of our last Eevnings talk, in this thy dream, But with addition strange; yet be not sad. Evil into the mind of God or Man May come and go, so unapprov'd, and leave No spot or blame behind: Which gives me hope That what in sleep thou didst abhorr to dream, Waking thou never wilt consent to do. Be not disheart'nd then, nor cloud those looks That wont to be more chearful and serene Then when fair Morning first smiles on the World, And let us to our fresh imployments rise Among the Groves, the Fountains, and the Flours That open now thir choicest bosom'd smells Reservd from night, and kept for thee in store. So cheard he his fair Spouse, and she was cheard, But silently a gentle tear let fall From either eye, and wip'd them with her haire; Two other precious drops that ready stood, Each in thir chrystal sluce, hee ere they fell Kiss'd as the gracious signs of sweet remorse And pious awe, that feard to have offended. So all was cleard, and to the Field they haste. But first from under shadie arborous roof, Soon as they forth were come to open sight Of day-spring, and the Sun, who scarce up risen With wheels yet hov'ring o're the Ocean brim, Shot paralel to the earth his dewie ray, Discovering in wide Lantskip all the East Of Paradise and EDENS happie Plains, Lowly they bow'd adoring, and began Thir Orisons, each Morning duly paid In various style, for neither various style Nor holy rapture wanted they to praise Thir Maker, in fit strains pronounc't or sung Unmeditated, such prompt eloquence Flowd from thir lips, in Prose or numerous Verse, More tuneable then needed Lute or Harp To add more sweetness, and they thus began. These are thy glorious works, Parent of good, Almightie, thine this universal Frame, Thus wondrous fair; thy self how wondrous then! Unspeakable, who sitst above these Heavens To us invisible or dimly seen In these thy lowest works, yet these declare Thy goodness beyond thought, and Power Divine: Speak yee who best can tell, ye Sons of light, Angels, for yee behold him, and with songs And choral symphonies, Day without Night, Circle his Throne rejoycing, yee in Heav'n, On Earth joyn all yee Creatures to extoll Him first, him last, him midst, and without end. Fairest of Starrs, last in the train of Night, If better thou belong not to the dawn, Sure pledge of day, that crownst the smiling Morn With thy bright Circlet, praise him in thy Spheare While day arises, that sweet hour of Prime. Thou Sun, of this great World both Eye and Soule, Acknowledge him thy Greater, sound his praise In thy eternal course, both when thou climb'st, And when high Noon hast gaind, & when thou fallst. Moon, that now meetst the orient Sun, now fli'st With the fixt Starrs, fixt in thir Orb that flies, And yee five other wandring Fires that move In mystic Dance not without Song, resound His praise, who out of Darkness call'd up Light. Aire, and ye Elements the eldest birth Of Natures Womb, that in quaternion run Perpetual Circle, multiform; and mix And nourish all things, let your ceasless change Varie to our great Maker still new praise. Ye Mists and Exhalations that now rise From Hill or steaming Lake, duskie or grey, Till the Sun paint your fleecie skirts with Gold, In honour to the Worlds great Author rise, Whether to deck with Clouds the uncolourd skie, Or wet the thirstie Earth with falling showers, Rising or falling still advance his praise. His praise ye Winds, that from four Quarters blow, Breath soft or loud; and wave your tops, ye Pines, With every Plant, in sign of Worship wave. Fountains and yee, that warble, as ye flow, Melodious murmurs, warbling tune his praise. Joyn voices all ye living Souls, ye Birds, That singing up to Heaven Gate ascend, Bear on your wings and in your notes his praise; Yee that in Waters glide, and yee that walk The Earth, and stately tread, or lowly creep; Witness if I be silent, Morn or Eeven, To Hill, or Valley, Fountain, or fresh shade Made vocal by my Song, and taught his praise. Hail universal Lord, be bounteous still To give us onely good; and if the night Have gathered aught of evil or conceald, Disperse it, as now light dispels the dark. So pray'd they innocent, and to thir thoughts Firm peace recoverd soon and wonted calm. On to thir mornings rural work they haste Among sweet dewes and flours; where any row Of Fruit-trees overwoodie reachd too farr Thir pamperd boughes, and needed hands to check Fruitless imbraces: or they led the Vine To wed her Elm; she spous'd about him twines Her mariageable arms, and with her brings Her dowr th' adopted Clusters, to adorn His barren leaves. Them thus imploid beheld With pittie Heav'ns high King, and to him call'd RAPHAEL, the sociable Spirit, that deign'd To travel with TOBIAS, and secur'd His marriage with the seaventimes-wedded Maid. RAPHAEL, said hee, thou hear'st what stir on Earth SATAN from Hell scap't through the darksom Gulf Hath raisd in Paradise, and how disturbd This night the human pair, how he designes In them at once to ruin all mankind. Go therefore, half this day as friend with friend Converse with ADAM, in what Bowre or shade Thou find'st him from the heat of Noon retir'd, To respit his day-labour with repast, Or with repose; and such discourse bring on, As may advise him of his happie state, Happiness in his power left free to will, Left to his own free Will, his Will though free, Yet mutable; whence warne him to beware He swerve not too secure: tell him withall His danger, and from whom, what enemie Late falln himself from Heav'n, is plotting now The fall of others from like state of bliss; By violence, no, for that shall be withstood, But by deceit and lies; this let him know, Least wilfully transgressing he pretend Surprisal, unadmonisht, unforewarnd. So spake th' Eternal Father, and fulfilld All Justice: nor delaid the winged Saint After his charge receivd, but from among Thousand Celestial Ardors, where he stood Vaild with his gorgeous wings, up springing light Flew through the midst of Heav'n; th' angelic Quires On each hand parting, to his speed gave way Through all th' Empyreal road; till at the Gate Of Heav'n arriv'd, the gate self-opend wide On golden Hinges turning, as by work Divine the sov'ran Architect had fram'd. From hence, no cloud, or, to obstruct his sight, Starr interpos'd, however small he sees, Not unconform to other shining Globes, Earth and the Gard'n of God, with Cedars crownd Above all Hills. As when by night the Glass Of GALILEO, less assur'd, observes Imagind Lands and Regions in the Moon: Or Pilot from amidst the CYCLADES DELOS or SAMOS first appeering kenns A cloudy spot. Down thither prone in flight He speeds, and through the vast Ethereal Skie Sailes between worlds & worlds, with steddie wing Now on the polar windes, then with quick Fann Winnows the buxom Air; till within soare Of Towring Eagles, to all the Fowles he seems A PHOENIX, gaz'd by all, as that sole Bird When to enshrine his reliques in the Sun's Bright Temple, to AEGYPTIAN THEB'S he flies. At once on th' Eastern cliff of Paradise He lights, and to his proper shape returns A Seraph wingd; six wings he wore, to shade His lineaments Divine; the pair that clad Each shoulder broad, came mantling o're his brest With regal Ornament; the middle pair Girt like a Starrie Zone his waste, and round Skirted his loines and thighes with downie Gold And colours dipt in Heav'n; the third his feet Shaddowd from either heele with featherd maile Skie-tinctur'd grain. Like MAIA'S son he stood, And shook his Plumes, that Heav'nly fragrance filld The circuit wide. Strait knew him all the bands Of Angels under watch; and to his state, And to his message high in honour rise; For on som message high they guessd him bound. Thir glittering Tents he passd, and now is come Into the blissful field, through Groves of Myrrhe, And flouring Odours, Cassia, Nard, and Balme; A Wilderness of sweets; for Nature here Wantond as in her prime, and plaid at will Her Virgin Fancies, pouring forth more sweet, Wilde above rule or art; enormous bliss. Him through the spicie Forrest onward com ADAM discernd, as in the dore he sat Of his coole Bowre, while now the mounted Sun Shot down direct his fervid Raies, to warme Earths inmost womb, more warmth then ADAM need; And EVE within, due at her hour prepar'd For dinner savourie fruits, of taste to please True appetite, and not disrelish thirst Of nectarous draughts between, from milkie stream, Berrie or Grape: to whom thus ADAM call'd. Haste hither EVE, and worth thy sight behold Eastward among those Trees, what glorious shape Comes this way moving; seems another Morn Ris'n on mid-noon; som great behest from Heav'n To us perhaps he brings, and will voutsafe This day to be our Guest. But goe with speed, And what thy stores contain, bring

factories

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

walk With Heav'nly touch of instrumental sounds In full harmonic number joind, thir songs Divide the night, and lift our thoughts to Heaven. Thus talking hand in hand alone they pass'd On to thir blissful Bower; it was a place Chos'n by the sovran Planter, when he fram'd All things to mans delightful use; the roofe Of thickest covert was inwoven shade Laurel and Mirtle, and what higher grew Of firm and fragrant leaf; on either side ACANTHUS, and each odorous bushie shrub Fenc'd up the verdant wall; each beauteous flour, IRIS all hues, Roses, and Gessamin Rear'd high thir flourisht heads between, and wrought Mosaic; underfoot the Violet, Crocus, and Hyacinth with rich inlay Broiderd the ground, more colour'd then with stone Of costliest Emblem: other Creature here Beast, Bird, Insect, or Worm durst enter none; Such was thir awe of man. In shadier Bower More sacred and sequesterd, though but feignd, PAN or SILVANUS never slept, nor Nymph, Nor FAUNUS haunted. Here in close recess With Flowers, Garlands, and sweet-smelling Herbs Espoused EVE deckt first her Nuptial Bed, And heav'nly Quires the Hymenaean sung, What day the genial Angel to our Sire Brought her in naked beauty more adorn'd, More lovely then PANDORA, whom the Gods Endowd with all thir gifts, and O too like In sad event, when to the unwiser Son Of JAPHET brought by HERMES, she ensnar'd Mankind with her faire looks, to be aveng'd On him who had stole JOVES authentic fire. Thus at thir shadie Lodge arriv'd, both stood, Both turnd, and under op'n Skie ador'd The God that made both Skie, Air, Earth & Heav'n Which they beheld, the Moons resplendent Globe And starrie Pole: Thou also mad'st the Night, Maker Omnipotent, and thou the Day, Which we in our appointed work imployd Have finisht happie in our mutual help And mutual love, the Crown of all our bliss Ordain'd by thee, and this delicious place For us too large, where thy abundance wants Partakers, and uncropt falls to the ground. But thou hast promis'd from us two a Race To fill the Earth, who shall with us extoll Thy goodness infinite, both when we wake, And when we seek, as now, thy gift of sleep. This said unanimous, and other Rites Observing none, but adoration pure Which God likes best, into thir inmost bower Handed they went; and eas'd the putting off These troublesom disguises which wee wear, Strait side by side were laid, nor turnd I weene ADAM from his fair Spouse, nor EVE the Rites Mysterious of connubial Love refus'd: Whatever Hypocrites austerely talk Of puritie and place and innocence, Defaming as impure what God declares Pure, and commands to som, leaves free to all. Our Maker bids increase, who bids abstain But our Destroyer, foe to God and Man? Haile wedded Love, mysterious Law, true source Of human ofspring, sole proprietie, In Paradise of all things common else. By thee adulterous lust was driv'n from men Among the bestial herds to raunge, by thee Founded in Reason, Loyal, Just, and Pure, Relations dear, and all the Charities Of Father, Son, and Brother first were known. Farr be it, that I should write thee sin or blame, Or think thee unbefitting holiest place, Perpetual Fountain of Domestic sweets, Whose Bed is undefil'd and chast pronounc't, Present, or past, as Saints and Patriarchs us'd. Here Love his golden shafts imploies, here lights His constant Lamp, and waves his purple wings, Reigns here and revels; not in the bought smile Of Harlots, loveless, joyless, unindeard, Casual fruition, nor in Court Amours Mixt Dance, or wanton Mask, or Midnight Bal, Or Serenate, which the starv'd Lover sings To his proud fair, best quitted with disdain. These lulld by Nightingales imbraceing slept, And on thir naked limbs the flourie roof Showrd Roses, which the Morn repair'd. Sleep on, Blest pair; and O yet happiest if ye seek No happier state, and know to know no more. Now had night measur'd with her shaddowie Cone Half way up Hill this vast Sublunar Vault, And from thir Ivorie Port the Cherubim Forth issuing at th' accustomd hour stood armd To thir night watches in warlike Parade, When GABRIEL to his next in power thus spake. UZZIEL, half these draw off, and coast the South With strictest watch; these other wheel the North, Our circuit meets full West. As flame they part Half wheeling to the Shield, half to the Spear. From these, two strong and suttle Spirits he calld That neer him stood, and gave them thus in charge. ITHURIEL and ZEPHON, with wingd speed Search through this Garden, leav unsearcht no nook, But chiefly where those two fair Creatures Lodge, Now laid perhaps asleep secure of harme. This Eevning from the Sun's decline arriv'd Who tells of som infernal Spirit seen Hitherward bent (who could have thought?) escap'd The barrs of Hell, on errand bad no doubt: Such where ye find, seise fast, and hither bring. So saying, on he led his radiant Files, Daz'ling the Moon; these to the Bower direct In search of whom they sought: him there they found Squat like a Toad, close at the eare of EVE; Assaying by his Devilish art to reach The Organs of her Fancie, and with them forge Illusions as he list, Phantasms and Dreams, Or if, inspiring venom, he might taint Th' animal Spirits that from pure blood arise Like gentle breaths from Rivers pure, thence raise At least distemperd, discontented thoughts, Vain hopes, vain aimes, inordinate desires Blown up with high conceits ingendring pride. Him thus intent ITHURIEL with his Spear Touch'd lightly; for no falshood can endure Touch of Celestial temper, but returns Of force to its own likeness: up he starts Discoverd and surpriz'd. As when a spark Lights on a heap of nitrous Powder, laid Fit for the Tun som Magazin to store Against a rumord Warr, the Smuttie graine With sudden blaze diffus'd, inflames the Aire: So started up in his own shape the Fiend. Back stept those two fair Angels half amaz'd So sudden to behold the grieslie King; Yet thus, unmovd with fear, accost him soon. Which of those rebell Spirits adjudg'd to Hell Com'st thou, escap'd thy prison, and transform'd, Why satst thou like an enemie in waite Here watching at the head of these that sleep? Know ye not then said SATAN, filld with scorn, Know ye not me? ye knew me once no mate For you, there sitting where ye durst not soare; Not to know mee argues your selves unknown, The lowest of your throng; or if ye know, Why ask ye, and superfluous begin Your message, like to end as much in vain? To whom thus ZEPHON, answering scorn with scorn. Think not, revolted Spirit, thy shape the same, Or undiminisht brightness, to be known As when thou stoodst in Heav'n upright and pure; That Glorie then, when thou no more wast good, Departed from thee, and thou resembl'st now Thy sin and place of doom obscure and foule. But come, for thou, be sure, shalt give account To him who sent us, whose charge is to keep This place inviolable, and these from harm. So spake the Cherube, and his grave rebuke Severe in youthful beautie, added grace Invincible: abasht the Devil stood, And felt how awful goodness is, and saw Vertue in her shape how lovly, saw, and pin'd His loss; but chiefly to find here observd His lustre visibly impar'd; yet seemd Undaunted. If I must contend, said he, Best with the best, the Sender not the sent, Or all at once; more glorie will be wonn, Or less be lost. Thy fear, said ZEPHON bold, Will save us trial what the least can doe Single against thee wicked, and thence weak. The Fiend repli'd not, overcome with rage; But like a proud Steed reind, went hautie on, Chaumping his iron curb: to strive or flie He held it vain; awe from above had quelld His heart, not else dismai'd. Now drew they nigh The western point, where those half-rounding guards Just met, & closing stood in squadron joind Awaiting next command. To whom thir Chief GABRIEL from the Front thus calld aloud. O friends, I hear the tread of nimble feet Hasting this way, and now by glimps discerne ITHURIEL and ZEPHON through the shade, And with them comes a third of Regal port, But faded splendor wan; who by his gate And fierce demeanour seems the Prince of Hell, Not likely to part hence without contest; Stand firm, for in his look defiance lours. He scarce had ended, when those two approachd And brief related whom they brought, wher found, How busied, in what form and posture coucht. To whom with stern regard thus GABRIEL spake. Why hast thou, SATAN, broke the bounds prescrib'd To thy transgressions, and disturbd the charge Of others, who approve not to transgress By thy example, but have power and right To question thy bold entrance on this place; Imploi'd it seems to violate sleep, and those Whose dwelling God hath planted here in bliss? To whom thus SATAN with contemptuous brow. GABRIEL, thou hadst in Heav'n th' esteem of wise, And such I held thee; but this question askt Puts me in doubt. Lives ther who loves his pain? Who would not, finding way, break loose from Hell, Though thither doomd? Thou wouldst thy self, no doubt, And boldly venture to whatever place Farthest from pain, where thou mightst hope to change Torment with ease, & soonest recompence Dole with delight, which in this place I sought; To thee no reason; who knowst only good, But evil hast not tri'd: and wilt object His will who bound us? let him surer barr His Iron Gates, if he intends our stay In that dark durance: thus much what was askt. The rest is true, they found me where they say; But that implies not violence or harme. Thus hee in scorn. The warlike Angel mov'd, Disdainfully half smiling thus repli'd. O loss of one in Heav'n to judge of wise, Since SATAN fell, whom follie overthrew, And now returns him from his prison scap't, Gravely in doubt whether to hold them wise Or not, who ask what boldness brought him hither Unlicenc't from his bounds in Hell prescrib'd; So wise he judges it to fly from pain However, and to scape his punishment. So judge thou still, presumptuous, till the wrauth, Which thou incurr'st by flying, meet thy flight Seavenfold, and scourge that wisdom back to Hell, Which taught thee yet no better, that no pain Can equal anger infinite provok't. But wherefore thou alone? wherefore with thee Came not all Hell broke loose? is pain to them Less pain, less to be fled, or thou then they Less hardie to endure? courageous Chief, The first in flight from pain, had'st thou alleg'd To thy deserted host this cause of flight, Thou surely hadst not come sole fugitive. To which the Fiend thus answerd frowning stern. Not that I less endure, or shrink from pain, Insulting Angel, well thou knowst I stood Thy fiercest, when in Battel to thy aide The blasting volied Thunder made all speed And seconded thy else not dreaded Spear. But still thy words at random, as before, Argue thy inexperience what behooves From hard assaies and ill successes past A faithful Leader, not to hazard all Through wayes of danger by himself untri'd. I therefore, I alone first undertook To wing the desolate Abyss, and spie This new created World, whereof in Hell Fame is not silent, here in hope to find Better abode, and my afflicted Powers To settle here on Earth, or in mid Aire; Though for possession put to try once more What thou and thy gay Legions dare against; Whose easier business were to serve thir Lord High up in Heav'n, with songs to hymne his Throne, And practis'd distances to cringe, not fight. To whom the warriour Angel soon repli'd. To say and strait unsay, pretending first Wise to flie pain, professing next the Spie, Argues no Leader, but a lyar trac't, SATAN, and couldst thou faithful add? O name, O sacred name of faithfulness profan'd! Faithful to whom? to thy rebellious crew? Armie of Fiends, fit body to fit head; Was this your discipline and faith ingag'd, Your military obedience, to dissolve Allegeance to th' acknowledg'd Power supream? And thou sly hypocrite, who now wouldst seem Patron of liberty, who more then thou Once fawn'd, and cring'd, and servilly ador'd Heav'ns awful Monarch? wherefore but in hope To dispossess him, and thy self to reigne? But mark what I arreede thee now, avant; Flie thither whence thou fledst: if from this houre Within these hallowd limits thou appeer, Back to th' infernal pit I drag thee chaind, And Seale thee so, as henceforth not to scorne The facil gates of hell too slightly barrd. So threatn'd hee, but SATAN to no threats Gave heed, but waxing more in rage repli'd. Then when I am thy captive talk of chaines, Proud limitarie Cherube, but ere then Farr heavier load thy self expect to feel From my prevailing arme, though Heavens King Ride on thy wings, and thou with thy Compeers, Us'd to the yoak, draw'st his triumphant wheels In progress through the rode of Heav'n Star-pav'd. While thus he spake, th' Angelic Squadron bright Turnd fierie red, sharpning in mooned hornes Thir Phalanx, and began to hemm him round With ported Spears, as thick as when a field Of CERES ripe for harvest waving bends Her bearded Grove of ears, which way the wind Swayes them; the careful Plowman doubting stands Least on the threshing floore his hopeful sheaves Prove chaff. On th' other side SATAN allarm'd Collecting all his might dilated stood, Like TENERIFF or ATLAS unremov'd: His stature reacht the Skie, and on his Crest Sat horror Plum'd; nor wanted in his graspe What seemd both Spear and Shield: now dreadful deeds Might have ensu'd, nor onely Paradise In this commotion, but the Starrie Cope Of Heav'n perhaps, or all the Elements At least had gon to rack, disturbd and torne With violence of this conflict, had not soon Th' Eternal to prevent such horrid fray Hung forth in Heav'n his golden Scales, yet seen Betwixt ASTREA and the SCORPION signe, Wherein all things created first he weighd, The pendulous round Earth with ballanc't Aire In counterpoise, now ponders all events, Battels and Realms: in these he put two weights The sequel each of parting and of fight; The latter quick up flew, and kickt the beam; Which GABRIEL spying, thus bespake the Fiend. SATAN, I know thy strength, and thou knowst mine, Neither our own but giv'n; what follie then To boast what Arms can doe, since thine no more Then Heav'n permits, nor mine, though doubld now To trample thee as mire: for proof look up, And read thy Lot in yon celestial Sign Where thou art weigh'd, & shown how light, how weak, If thou resist. The Fiend lookt up and knew His mounted scale aloft: nor more; but fled Murmuring, and with him fled the shades of night. THE END OF THE FOURTH BOOK. PARADISE LOST BOOK V. Now Morn her rosie steps in th' Eastern Clime Advancing, sow'd the Earth with Orient Pearle, When ADAM wak't, so customd, for his sleep Was Aerie light, from pure digestion bred, And temperat vapors bland, which th' only sound Of leaves and fuming rills, AURORA's fan, Lightly dispers'd, and the shrill Matin Song Of Birds on every bough; so much the more His wonder was to find unwak'nd EVE With Tresses discompos'd, and glowing Cheek, As through unquiet rest: he on his side Leaning half-rais'd, with looks of cordial Love Hung over her enamour'd, and beheld Beautie, which whether waking or asleep, Shot forth peculiar Graces; then with voice Milde, as when ZEPHYRUS on FLORA breathes, Her hand soft touching, whisperd thus. Awake My fairest, my espous'd, my latest found, Heav'ns last best gift, my ever new delight, Awake, the morning shines, and the fresh field Calls us, we lose the prime, to mark how spring Our tended Plants, how blows the Citron Grove, What drops the Myrrhe, & what the balmie Reed, How Nature paints her colours, how the Bee Sits on the Bloom extracting liquid sweet. Such whispering wak'd her, but with startl'd eye On ADAM, whom imbracing, thus she spake. O Sole in whom my thoughts find all repose, My Glorie, my Perfection, glad I see Thy face, and Morn return'd, for I this Night, Such night till this I never pass'd, have dream'd, If dream'd, not as I oft am wont, of thee, Works of day pass't, or morrows next designe, But of offence and trouble, which my mind Knew never till this irksom night; methought Close at mine ear one call'd me forth to walk With gentle voice, I thought it thine; it said, Why sleepst thou EVE? now is the pleasant time, The cool, the silent, save where silence yields To the night-warbling Bird, that now awake Tunes sweetest his love-labor'd song; now reignes Full Orb'd the Moon, and with more pleasing light Shadowie sets off the face of things; in vain, If none regard; Heav'n wakes with all his eyes, Whom to behold but thee, Natures desire, In whose sight all things joy, with ravishment Attracted by thy beauty still to gaze. I rose as at thy call, but found thee not; To find thee I directed then my walk; And on, methought, alone I pass'd through ways That brought me on a sudden to the Tree Of interdicted Knowledge: fair it seem'd, Much fairer to my Fancie then by day: And as I wondring lookt, beside it stood One shap'd & wing'd like one of those from Heav'n By us oft seen; his dewie locks distill'd Ambrosia; on that Tree he also gaz'd; And O fair Plant, said he, with fruit surcharg'd, Deigns none to ease thy load and taste thy sweet, Nor God, nor Man; is Knowledge so despis'd? Or envie, or what reserve forbids to taste? Forbid who will, none shall from me withhold Longer thy offerd good, why else set here? This said he paus'd not, but with ventrous Arme He pluckt, he tasted; mee damp horror chil'd At such bold words voucht with a deed so bold: But he thus overjoy'd, O Fruit Divine, Sweet of thy self, but much more sweet thus cropt, Forbidd'n here, it seems, as onely fit For Gods, yet able to make Gods of Men: And why not Gods of Men, since good, the more Communicated, more abundant growes, The Author not impair'd, but honourd more? Here, happie Creature, fair Angelic EVE, Partake thou also; happie though thou art, Happier thou mayst be, worthier canst not be: Taste this, and be henceforth among the Gods Thy self a Goddess, not to Earth confind, But somtimes in the Air, as wee, somtimes Ascend to Heav'n, by merit thine, and see What life the Gods live there, and such live thou. So saying, he drew nigh, and to me held, Even to my mouth of that same fruit held part Which he had pluckt; the pleasant savourie smell So quick'nd appetite, that I, methought, Could not but taste. Forthwith up to the Clouds With him I flew, and underneath beheld The Earth outstretcht immense, a prospect wide And various: wondring at my flight and change To this high exaltation; suddenly My Guide was gon, and I, me thought, sunk down, And fell asleep; but O how glad I wak'd To find this but a dream! Thus EVE her Night Related, and thus ADAM answerd sad. Best Image of my self and dearer half, The trouble of thy thoughts this night in sleep Affects me equally; nor can I like This uncouth dream, of evil sprung I fear; Yet evil whence? in thee can harbour none, Created pure. But know that in the Soule Are many lesser Faculties that serve Reason as chief; among these Fansie next Her office holds; of all external things, Which the five watchful Senses represent, She forms Imaginations, Aerie shapes, Which Reason joyning or disjoyning, frames All what we affirm or what deny, and call Our knowledge or opinion; then retires Into her private Cell when Nature rests. Oft in her absence mimic Fansie wakes To imitate her; but misjoyning shapes, Wilde work produces oft, and most in dreams, Ill matching words and deeds long past or late. Som such resemblances methinks I find Of our last Eevnings talk, in this thy dream, But with addition strange; yet be not sad. Evil into the mind of God or Man May come and go, so unapprov'd, and leave No spot or blame behind: Which gives me hope That what in sleep thou didst abhorr to dream, Waking thou never wilt consent to do. Be not disheart'nd then, nor cloud those looks That wont to be more chearful and serene Then when fair Morning first smiles on the World, And let us to our fresh imployments rise Among the Groves, the Fountains, and the Flours That open now thir choicest bosom'd smells Reservd from night, and kept for thee in store. So cheard he his fair Spouse, and she was cheard, But silently a gentle tear let fall From either eye, and wip'd them with her haire; Two other precious drops that ready stood, Each in thir chrystal sluce, hee ere they fell Kiss'd as the gracious signs of sweet remorse And pious awe, that feard to have offended. So all was cleard, and to the Field they haste. But first from under shadie arborous roof, Soon as they forth were come to open sight Of day-spring, and the Sun, who scarce up risen With wheels yet hov'ring o're the Ocean brim, Shot paralel to the earth his dewie ray, Discovering in wide Lantskip all the East Of Paradise and EDENS happie Plains, Lowly they bow'd adoring, and began Thir Orisons, each Morning duly paid In various style, for neither various style Nor holy rapture wanted they to praise Thir Maker, in fit strains pronounc't or sung Unmeditated, such prompt eloquence Flowd from thir lips, in Prose or numerous Verse, More tuneable then needed Lute or Harp To add more sweetness, and they thus began. These are thy glorious works, Parent of good, Almightie, thine this universal Frame, Thus wondrous fair; thy self how wondrous then! Unspeakable, who sitst above these Heavens To us invisible or dimly seen In these thy lowest works, yet these declare Thy goodness beyond thought, and Power Divine: Speak yee who best can tell, ye Sons of light, Angels, for yee behold him, and with songs And choral symphonies, Day without Night, Circle his Throne rejoycing, yee in Heav'n, On Earth joyn all yee Creatures to extoll Him first, him last, him midst, and without end. Fairest of Starrs, last in the train of Night, If better thou belong not to the dawn, Sure pledge of day, that crownst the smiling Morn With thy bright Circlet, praise him in thy Spheare While day arises, that sweet hour of Prime. Thou Sun, of this great World both Eye and Soule, Acknowledge him thy Greater, sound his praise In thy eternal course, both when thou climb'st, And when high Noon hast gaind, & when thou fallst. Moon, that now meetst the orient Sun, now fli'st With the fixt Starrs, fixt in thir Orb that flies, And yee five other wandring Fires that move In mystic Dance not without Song, resound His praise, who out of Darkness call'd up Light. Aire, and ye Elements the eldest birth Of Natures Womb, that in quaternion run Perpetual Circle, multiform; and mix And nourish all things, let your ceasless change Varie to our great Maker still new praise. Ye Mists and Exhalations that now rise From Hill or steaming Lake, duskie or grey, Till the Sun paint your fleecie skirts with Gold, In honour to the Worlds great Author rise, Whether to deck with Clouds the uncolourd skie, Or wet the thirstie Earth with falling showers, Rising or falling still advance his praise. His praise ye Winds, that from four Quarters blow, Breath soft or loud; and wave your tops, ye Pines, With every Plant, in sign of Worship wave. Fountains and yee, that warble, as ye flow, Melodious murmurs, warbling tune his praise. Joyn voices all ye living Souls, ye Birds, That singing up to Heaven Gate ascend, Bear on your wings and in your notes his praise; Yee that in Waters glide, and yee that walk The Earth, and stately tread, or lowly creep; Witness if I be silent, Morn or Eeven, To Hill, or Valley, Fountain, or fresh shade Made vocal by my Song, and taught his praise. Hail universal Lord, be bounteous still To give us onely good; and if the night Have gathered aught of evil or conceald, Disperse it, as now light dispels the dark. So pray'd they innocent, and to thir thoughts Firm peace recoverd soon and wonted calm. On to thir mornings rural work they haste Among sweet dewes and flours; where any row Of Fruit-trees overwoodie reachd too farr Thir pamperd boughes, and needed hands to check Fruitless imbraces: or they led the Vine To wed her Elm; she spous'd about him twines Her mariageable arms, and with her brings Her dowr th' adopted Clusters, to adorn His barren leaves. Them thus imploid beheld With pittie Heav'ns high King, and to him call'd RAPHAEL, the sociable Spirit, that deign'd To travel with TOBIAS, and secur'd His marriage with the seaventimes-wedded Maid. RAPHAEL, said hee, thou hear'st what stir on Earth SATAN from Hell scap't through the darksom Gulf Hath raisd in Paradise, and how disturbd This night the human pair, how he designes In them at once to ruin all mankind. Go therefore, half this day as friend with friend Converse with ADAM, in what Bowre or shade Thou find'st him from the heat of Noon retir'd, To respit his day-labour with repast, Or with repose; and such discourse bring on, As may advise him of his happie state, Happiness in his power left free to will, Left to his own free Will, his Will though free, Yet mutable; whence warne him to beware He swerve not too secure: tell him withall His danger, and from whom, what enemie Late falln himself from Heav'n, is plotting now The fall of others from like state of bliss; By violence, no, for that shall be withstood, But by deceit and lies; this let him know, Least wilfully transgressing he pretend Surprisal, unadmonisht, unforewarnd. So spake th' Eternal Father, and fulfilld All Justice: nor delaid the winged Saint After his charge receivd, but from among Thousand Celestial Ardors, where he stood Vaild with his gorgeous wings, up springing light Flew through the midst of Heav'n; th' angelic Quires On each hand parting, to his speed gave way Through all th' Empyreal road; till at the Gate Of Heav'n arriv'd, the gate self-opend wide On golden Hinges turning, as by work Divine the sov'ran Architect had fram'd. From hence, no cloud, or, to obstruct his sight, Starr interpos'd, however small he sees, Not unconform to other shining Globes, Earth and the Gard'n of God, with Cedars crownd Above all Hills. As when by night the Glass Of GALILEO, less assur'd, observes Imagind Lands and Regions in the Moon: Or Pilot from amidst the CYCLADES DELOS or SAMOS first appeering kenns A cloudy spot. Down thither prone in flight He speeds, and through the vast Ethereal Skie Sailes between worlds & worlds, with steddie wing Now on the polar windes, then with quick Fann Winnows the buxom Air; till within soare Of Towring Eagles, to all the Fowles he seems A PHOENIX, gaz'd by all, as that sole Bird When to enshrine his reliques in the Sun's Bright Temple, to AEGYPTIAN THEB'S he flies. At once on th' Eastern cliff of Paradise He lights, and to his proper shape returns A Seraph wingd; six wings he wore, to shade His lineaments Divine; the pair that clad Each shoulder broad, came mantling o're his brest With regal Ornament; the middle pair Girt like a Starrie Zone his waste, and round Skirted his loines and thighes with downie Gold And colours dipt in Heav'n; the third his feet Shaddowd from either heele with featherd maile Skie-tinctur'd grain. Like MAIA'S son he stood, And shook his Plumes, that Heav'nly fragrance filld The circuit wide. Strait knew him all the bands Of Angels under watch; and to his state, And to his message high in honour rise; For on som message high they guessd him bound. Thir glittering Tents he passd, and now is come Into the blissful field, through Groves of Myrrhe, And flouring Odours, Cassia, Nard, and Balme; A Wilderness of sweets; for Nature here Wantond as in her prime, and plaid at will Her Virgin Fancies, pouring forth more sweet, Wilde above rule or art; enormous bliss. Him through the spicie Forrest onward com ADAM discernd, as in the dore he sat Of his coole Bowre, while now the mounted Sun Shot down direct his fervid Raies, to warme Earths inmost womb, more warmth then ADAM need; And EVE within, due at her hour prepar'd For dinner savourie fruits, of taste to please True appetite, and not disrelish thirst Of nectarous draughts between, from milkie stream, Berrie or Grape: to whom thus ADAM call'd. Haste hither EVE, and worth thy sight behold Eastward among those Trees, what glorious shape Comes this way moving; seems another Morn Ris'n on mid-noon; som great behest from Heav'n To us perhaps he brings, and will voutsafe This day to be our Guest. But goe with speed, And what thy stores contain, bring

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walk With Heav'nly touch of instrumental sounds In full harmonic number joind, thir songs Divide the night, and lift our thoughts to Heaven. Thus talking hand in hand alone they pass'd On to thir blissful Bower; it was a place Chos'n by the sovran Planter, when he fram'd All things to mans delightful use; the roofe Of thickest covert was inwoven shade Laurel and Mirtle, and what higher grew Of firm and fragrant leaf; on either side ACANTHUS, and each odorous bushie shrub Fenc'd up the verdant wall; each beauteous flour, IRIS all hues, Roses, and Gessamin Rear'd high thir flourisht heads between, and wrought Mosaic; underfoot the Violet, Crocus, and Hyacinth with rich inlay Broiderd the ground, more colour'd then with stone Of costliest Emblem: other Creature here Beast, Bird, Insect, or Worm durst enter none; Such was thir awe of man. In shadier Bower More sacred and sequesterd, though but feignd, PAN or SILVANUS never slept, nor Nymph, Nor FAUNUS haunted. Here in close recess With Flowers, Garlands, and sweet-smelling Herbs Espoused EVE deckt first her Nuptial Bed, And heav'nly Quires the Hymenaean sung, What day the genial Angel to our Sire Brought her in naked beauty more adorn'd, More lovely then PANDORA, whom the Gods Endowd with all thir gifts, and O too like In sad event, when to the unwiser Son Of JAPHET brought by HERMES, she ensnar'd Mankind with her faire looks, to be aveng'd On him who had stole JOVES authentic fire. Thus at thir shadie Lodge arriv'd, both stood, Both turnd, and under op'n Skie ador'd The God that made both Skie, Air, Earth & Heav'n Which they beheld, the Moons resplendent Globe And starrie Pole: Thou also mad'st the Night, Maker Omnipotent, and thou the Day, Which we in our appointed work imployd Have finisht happie in our mutual help And mutual love, the Crown of all our bliss Ordain'd by thee, and this delicious place For us too large, where thy abundance wants Partakers, and uncropt falls to the ground. But thou hast promis'd from us two a Race To fill the Earth, who shall with us extoll Thy goodness infinite, both when we wake, And when we seek, as now, thy gift of sleep. This said unanimous, and other Rites Observing none, but adoration pure Which God likes best, into thir inmost bower Handed they went; and eas'd the putting off These troublesom disguises which wee wear, Strait side by side were laid, nor turnd I weene ADAM from his fair Spouse, nor EVE the Rites Mysterious of connubial Love refus'd: Whatever Hypocrites austerely talk Of puritie and place and innocence, Defaming as impure what God declares Pure, and commands to som, leaves free to all. Our Maker bids increase, who bids abstain But our Destroyer, foe to God and Man? Haile wedded Love, mysterious Law, true source Of human ofspring, sole proprietie, In Paradise of all things common else. By thee adulterous lust was driv'n from men Among the bestial herds to raunge, by thee Founded in Reason, Loyal, Just, and Pure, Relations dear, and all the Charities Of Father, Son, and Brother first were known. Farr be it, that I should write thee sin or blame, Or think thee unbefitting holiest place, Perpetual Fountain of Domestic sweets, Whose Bed is undefil'd and chast pronounc't, Present, or past, as Saints and Patriarchs us'd. Here Love his golden shafts imploies, here lights His constant Lamp, and waves his purple wings, Reigns here and revels; not in the bought smile Of Harlots, loveless, joyless, unindeard, Casual fruition, nor in Court Amours Mixt Dance, or wanton Mask, or Midnight Bal, Or Serenate, which the starv'd Lover sings To his proud fair, best quitted with disdain. These lulld by Nightingales imbraceing slept, And on thir naked limbs the flourie roof Showrd Roses, which the Morn repair'd. Sleep on, Blest pair; and O yet happiest if ye seek No happier state, and know to know no more. Now had night measur'd with her shaddowie Cone Half way up Hill this vast Sublunar Vault, And from thir Ivorie Port the Cherubim Forth issuing at th' accustomd hour stood armd To thir night watches in warlike Parade, When GABRIEL to his next in power thus spake. UZZIEL, half these draw off, and coast the South With strictest watch; these other wheel the North, Our circuit meets full West. As flame they part Half wheeling to the Shield, half to the Spear. From these, two strong and suttle Spirits he calld That neer him stood, and gave them thus in charge. ITHURIEL and ZEPHON, with wingd speed Search through this Garden, leav unsearcht no nook, But chiefly where those two fair Creatures Lodge, Now laid perhaps asleep secure of harme. This Eevning from the Sun's decline arriv'd Who tells of som infernal Spirit seen Hitherward bent (who could have thought?) escap'd The barrs of Hell, on errand bad no doubt: Such where ye find, seise fast, and hither bring. So saying, on he led his radiant Files, Daz'ling the Moon; these to the Bower direct In search of whom they sought: him there they found Squat like a Toad, close at the eare of EVE; Assaying by his Devilish art to reach The Organs of her Fancie, and with them forge Illusions as he list, Phantasms and Dreams, Or if, inspiring venom, he might taint Th' animal Spirits that from pure blood arise Like gentle breaths from Rivers pure, thence raise At least distemperd, discontented thoughts, Vain hopes, vain aimes, inordinate desires Blown up with high conceits ingendring pride. Him thus intent ITHURIEL with his Spear Touch'd lightly; for no falshood can endure Touch of Celestial temper, but returns Of force to its own likeness: up he starts Discoverd and surpriz'd. As when a spark Lights on a heap of nitrous Powder, laid Fit for the Tun som Magazin to store Against a rumord Warr, the Smuttie graine With sudden blaze diffus'd, inflames the Aire: So started up in his own shape the Fiend. Back stept those two fair Angels half amaz'd So sudden to behold the grieslie King; Yet thus, unmovd with fear, accost him soon. Which of those rebell Spirits adjudg'd to Hell Com'st thou, escap'd thy prison, and transform'd, Why satst thou like an enemie in waite Here watching at the head of these that sleep? Know ye not then said SATAN, filld with scorn, Know ye not me? ye knew me once no mate For you, there sitting where ye durst not soare; Not to know mee argues your selves unknown, The lowest of your throng; or if ye know, Why ask ye, and superfluous begin Your message, like to end as much in vain? To whom thus ZEPHON, answering scorn with scorn. Think not, revolted Spirit, thy shape the same, Or undiminisht brightness, to be known As when thou stoodst in Heav'n upright and pure; That Glorie then, when thou no more wast good, Departed from thee, and thou resembl'st now Thy sin and place of doom obscure and foule. But come, for thou, be sure, shalt give account To him who sent us, whose charge is to keep This place inviolable, and these from harm. So spake the Cherube, and his grave rebuke Severe in youthful beautie, added grace Invincible: abasht the Devil stood, And felt how awful goodness is, and saw Vertue in her shape how lovly, saw, and pin'd His loss; but chiefly to find here observd His lustre visibly impar'd; yet seemd Undaunted. If I must contend, said he, Best with the best, the Sender not the sent, Or all at once; more glorie will be wonn, Or less be lost. Thy fear, said ZEPHON bold, Will save us trial what the least can doe Single against thee wicked, and thence weak. The Fiend repli'd not, overcome with rage; But like a proud Steed reind, went hautie on, Chaumping his iron curb: to strive or flie He held it vain; awe from above had quelld His heart, not else dismai'd. Now drew they nigh The western point, where those half-rounding guards Just met, & closing stood in squadron joind Awaiting next command. To whom thir Chief GABRIEL from the Front thus calld aloud. O friends, I hear the tread of nimble feet Hasting this way, and now by glimps discerne ITHURIEL and ZEPHON through the shade, And with them comes a third of Regal port, But faded splendor wan; who by his gate And fierce demeanour seems the Prince of Hell, Not likely to part hence without contest; Stand firm, for in his look defiance lours. He scarce had ended, when those two approachd And brief related whom they brought, wher found, How busied, in what form and posture coucht. To whom with stern regard thus GABRIEL spake. Why hast thou, SATAN, broke the bounds prescrib'd To thy transgressions, and disturbd the charge Of others, who approve not to transgress By thy example, but have power and right To question thy bold entrance on this place; Imploi'd it seems to violate sleep, and those Whose dwelling God hath planted here in bliss? To whom thus SATAN with contemptuous brow. GABRIEL, thou hadst in Heav'n th' esteem of wise, And such I held thee; but this question askt Puts me in doubt. Lives ther who loves his pain? Who would not, finding way, break loose from Hell, Though thither doomd? Thou wouldst thy self, no doubt, And boldly venture to whatever place Farthest from pain, where thou mightst hope to change Torment with ease, & soonest recompence Dole with delight, which in this place I sought; To thee no reason; who knowst only good, But evil hast not tri'd: and wilt object His will who bound us? let him surer barr His Iron Gates, if he intends our stay In that dark durance: thus much what was askt. The rest is true, they found me where they say; But that implies not violence or harme. Thus hee in scorn. The warlike Angel mov'd, Disdainfully half smiling thus repli'd. O loss of one in Heav'n to judge of wise, Since SATAN fell, whom follie overthrew, And now returns him from his prison scap't, Gravely in doubt whether to hold them wise Or not, who ask what boldness brought him hither Unlicenc't from his bounds in Hell prescrib'd; So wise he judges it to fly from pain However, and to scape his punishment. So judge thou still, presumptuous, till the wrauth, Which thou incurr'st by flying, meet thy flight Seavenfold, and scourge that wisdom back to Hell, Which taught thee yet no better, that no pain Can equal anger infinite provok't. But wherefore thou alone? wherefore with thee Came not all Hell broke loose? is pain to them Less pain, less to be fled, or thou then they Less hardie to endure? courageous Chief, The first in flight from pain, had'st thou alleg'd To thy deserted host this cause of flight, Thou surely hadst not come sole fugitive. To which the Fiend thus answerd frowning stern. Not that I less endure, or shrink from pain, Insulting Angel, well thou knowst I stood Thy fiercest, when in Battel to thy aide The blasting volied Thunder made all speed And seconded thy else not dreaded Spear. But still thy words at random, as before, Argue thy inexperience what behooves From hard assaies and ill successes past A faithful Leader, not to hazard all Through wayes of danger by himself untri'd. I therefore, I alone first undertook To wing the desolate Abyss, and spie This new created World, whereof in Hell Fame is not silent, here in hope to find Better abode, and my afflicted Powers To settle here on Earth, or in mid Aire; Though for possession put to try once more What thou and thy gay Legions dare against; Whose easier business were to serve thir Lord High up in Heav'n, with songs to hymne his Throne, And practis'd distances to cringe, not fight. To whom the warriour Angel soon repli'd. To say and strait unsay, pretending first Wise to flie pain, professing next the Spie, Argues no Leader, but a lyar trac't, SATAN, and couldst thou faithful add? O name, O sacred name of faithfulness profan'd! Faithful to whom? to thy rebellious crew? Armie of Fiends, fit body to fit head; Was this your discipline and faith ingag'd, Your military obedience, to dissolve Allegeance to th' acknowledg'd Power supream? And thou sly hypocrite, who now wouldst seem Patron of liberty, who more then thou Once fawn'd, and cring'd, and servilly ador'd Heav'ns awful Monarch? wherefore but in hope To dispossess him, and thy self to reigne? But mark what I arreede thee now, avant; Flie thither whence thou fledst: if from this houre Within these hallowd limits thou appeer, Back to th' infernal pit I drag thee chaind, And Seale thee so, as henceforth not to scorne The facil gates of hell too slightly barrd. So threatn'd hee, but SATAN to no threats Gave heed, but waxing more in rage repli'd. Then when I am thy captive talk of chaines, Proud limitarie Cherube, but ere then Farr heavier load thy self expect to feel From my prevailing arme, though Heavens King Ride on thy wings, and thou with thy Compeers, Us'd to the yoak, draw'st his triumphant wheels In progress through the rode of Heav'n Star-pav'd. While thus he spake, th' Angelic Squadron bright Turnd fierie red, sharpning in mooned hornes Thir Phalanx, and began to hemm him round With ported Spears, as thick as when a field Of CERES ripe for harvest waving bends Her bearded Grove of ears, which way the wind Swayes them; the careful Plowman doubting stands Least on the threshing floore his hopeful sheaves Prove chaff. On th' other side SATAN allarm'd Collecting all his might dilated stood, Like TENERIFF or ATLAS unremov'd: His stature reacht the Skie, and on his Crest Sat horror Plum'd; nor wanted in his graspe What seemd both Spear and Shield: now dreadful deeds Might have ensu'd, nor onely Paradise In this commotion, but the Starrie Cope Of Heav'n perhaps, or all the Elements At least had gon to rack, disturbd and torne With violence of this conflict, had not soon Th' Eternal to prevent such horrid fray Hung forth in Heav'n his golden Scales, yet seen Betwixt ASTREA and the SCORPION signe, Wherein all things created first he weighd, The pendulous round Earth with ballanc't Aire In counterpoise, now ponders all events, Battels and Realms: in these he put two weights The sequel each of parting and of fight; The latter quick up flew, and kickt the beam; Which GABRIEL spying, thus bespake the Fiend. SATAN, I know thy strength, and thou knowst mine, Neither our own but giv'n; what follie then To boast what Arms can doe, since thine no more Then Heav'n permits, nor mine, though doubld now To trample thee as mire: for proof look up, And read thy Lot in yon celestial Sign Where thou art weigh'd, & shown how light, how weak, If thou resist. The Fiend lookt up and knew His mounted scale aloft: nor more; but fled Murmuring, and with him fled the shades of night. THE END OF THE FOURTH BOOK. PARADISE LOST BOOK V. Now Morn her rosie steps in th' Eastern Clime Advancing, sow'd the Earth with Orient Pearle, When ADAM wak't, so customd, for his sleep Was Aerie light, from pure digestion bred, And temperat vapors bland, which th' only sound Of leaves and fuming rills, AURORA's fan, Lightly dispers'd, and the shrill Matin Song Of Birds on every bough; so much the more His wonder was to find unwak'nd EVE With Tresses discompos'd, and glowing Cheek, As through unquiet rest: he on his side Leaning half-rais'd, with looks of cordial Love Hung over her enamour'd, and beheld Beautie, which whether waking or asleep, Shot forth peculiar Graces; then with voice Milde, as when ZEPHYRUS on FLORA breathes, Her hand soft touching, whisperd thus. Awake My fairest, my espous'd, my latest found, Heav'ns last best gift, my ever new delight, Awake, the morning shines, and the fresh field Calls us, we lose the prime, to mark how spring Our tended Plants, how blows the Citron Grove, What drops the Myrrhe, & what the balmie Reed, How Nature paints her colours, how the Bee Sits on the Bloom extracting liquid sweet. Such whispering wak'd her, but with startl'd eye On ADAM, whom imbracing, thus she spake. O Sole in whom my thoughts find all repose, My Glorie, my Perfection, glad I see Thy face, and Morn return'd, for I this Night, Such night till this I never pass'd, have dream'd, If dream'd, not as I oft am wont, of thee, Works of day pass't, or morrows next designe, But of offence and trouble, which my mind Knew never till this irksom night; methought Close at mine ear one call'd me forth to walk With gentle voice, I thought it thine; it said, Why sleepst thou EVE? now is the pleasant time, The cool, the silent, save where silence yields To the night-warbling Bird, that now awake Tunes sweetest his love-labor'd song; now reignes Full Orb'd the Moon, and with more pleasing light Shadowie sets off the face of things; in vain, If none regard; Heav'n wakes with all his eyes, Whom to behold but thee, Natures desire, In whose sight all things joy, with ravishment Attracted by thy beauty still to gaze. I rose as at thy call, but found thee not; To find thee I directed then my walk; And on, methought, alone I pass'd through ways That brought me on a sudden to the Tree Of interdicted Knowledge: fair it seem'd, Much fairer to my Fancie then by day: And as I wondring lookt, beside it stood One shap'd & wing'd like one of those from Heav'n By us oft seen; his dewie locks distill'd Ambrosia; on that Tree he also gaz'd; And O fair Plant, said he, with fruit surcharg'd, Deigns none to ease thy load and taste thy sweet, Nor God, nor Man; is Knowledge so despis'd? Or envie, or what reserve forbids to taste? Forbid who will, none shall from me withhold Longer thy offerd good, why else set here? This said he paus'd not, but with ventrous Arme He pluckt, he tasted; mee damp horror chil'd At such bold words voucht with a deed so bold: But he thus overjoy'd, O Fruit Divine, Sweet of thy self, but much more sweet thus cropt, Forbidd'n here, it seems, as onely fit For Gods, yet able to make Gods of Men: And why not Gods of Men, since good, the more Communicated, more abundant growes, The Author not impair'd, but honourd more? Here, happie Creature, fair Angelic EVE, Partake thou also; happie though thou art, Happier thou mayst be, worthier canst not be: Taste this, and be henceforth among the Gods Thy self a Goddess, not to Earth confind, But somtimes in the Air, as wee, somtimes Ascend to Heav'n, by merit thine, and see What life the Gods live there, and such live thou. So saying, he drew nigh, and to me held, Even to my mouth of that same fruit held part Which he had pluckt; the pleasant savourie smell So quick'nd appetite, that I, methought, Could not but taste. Forthwith up to the Clouds With him I flew, and underneath beheld The Earth outstretcht immense, a prospect wide And various: wondring at my flight and change To this high exaltation; suddenly My Guide was gon, and I, me thought, sunk down, And fell asleep; but O how glad I wak'd To find this but a dream! Thus EVE her Night Related, and thus ADAM answerd sad. Best Image of my self and dearer half, The trouble of thy thoughts this night in sleep Affects me equally; nor can I like This uncouth dream, of evil sprung I fear; Yet evil whence? in thee can harbour none, Created pure. But know that in the Soule Are many lesser Faculties that serve Reason as chief; among these Fansie next Her office holds; of all external things, Which the five watchful Senses represent, She forms Imaginations, Aerie shapes, Which Reason joyning or disjoyning, frames All what we affirm or what deny, and call Our knowledge or opinion; then retires Into her private Cell when Nature rests. Oft in her absence mimic Fansie wakes To imitate her; but misjoyning shapes, Wilde work produces oft, and most in dreams, Ill matching words and deeds long past or late. Som such resemblances methinks I find Of our last Eevnings talk, in this thy dream, But with addition strange; yet be not sad. Evil into the mind of God or Man May come and go, so unapprov'd, and leave No spot or blame behind: Which gives me hope That what in sleep thou didst abhorr to dream, Waking thou never wilt consent to do. Be not disheart'nd then, nor cloud those looks That wont to be more chearful and serene Then when fair Morning first smiles on the World, And let us to our fresh imployments rise Among the Groves, the Fountains, and the Flours That open now thir choicest bosom'd smells Reservd from night, and kept for thee in store. So cheard he his fair Spouse, and she was cheard, But silently a gentle tear let fall From either eye, and wip'd them with her haire; Two other precious drops that ready stood, Each in thir chrystal sluce, hee ere they fell Kiss'd as the gracious signs of sweet remorse And pious awe, that feard to have offended. So all was cleard, and to the Field they haste. But first from under shadie arborous roof, Soon as they forth were come to open sight Of day-spring, and the Sun, who scarce up risen With wheels yet hov'ring o're the Ocean brim, Shot paralel to the earth his dewie ray, Discovering in wide Lantskip all the East Of Paradise and EDENS happie Plains, Lowly they bow'd adoring, and began Thir Orisons, each Morning duly paid In various style, for neither various style Nor holy rapture wanted they to praise Thir Maker, in fit strains pronounc't or sung Unmeditated, such prompt eloquence Flowd from thir lips, in Prose or numerous Verse, More tuneable then needed Lute or Harp To add more sweetness, and they thus began. These are thy glorious works, Parent of good, Almightie, thine this universal Frame, Thus wondrous fair; thy self how wondrous then! Unspeakable, who sitst above these Heavens To us invisible or dimly seen In these thy lowest works, yet these declare Thy goodness beyond thought, and Power Divine: Speak yee who best can tell, ye Sons of light, Angels, for yee behold him, and with songs And choral symphonies, Day without Night, Circle his Throne rejoycing, yee in Heav'n, On Earth joyn all yee Creatures to extoll Him first, him last, him midst, and without end. Fairest of Starrs, last in the train of Night, If better thou belong not to the dawn, Sure pledge of day, that crownst the smiling Morn With thy bright Circlet, praise him in thy Spheare While day arises, that sweet hour of Prime. Thou Sun, of this great World both Eye and Soule, Acknowledge him thy Greater, sound his praise In thy eternal course, both when thou climb'st, And when high Noon hast gaind, & when thou fallst. Moon, that now meetst the orient Sun, now fli'st With the fixt Starrs, fixt in thir Orb that flies, And yee five other wandring Fires that move In mystic Dance not without Song, resound His praise, who out of Darkness call'd up Light. Aire, and ye Elements the eldest birth Of Natures Womb, that in quaternion run Perpetual Circle, multiform; and mix And nourish all things, let your ceasless change Varie to our great Maker still new praise. Ye Mists and Exhalations that now rise From Hill or steaming Lake, duskie or grey, Till the Sun paint your fleecie skirts with Gold, In honour to the Worlds great Author rise, Whether to deck with Clouds the uncolourd skie, Or wet the thirstie Earth with falling showers, Rising or falling still advance his praise. His praise ye Winds, that from four Quarters blow, Breath soft or loud; and wave your tops, ye Pines, With every Plant, in sign of Worship wave. Fountains and yee, that warble, as ye flow, Melodious murmurs, warbling tune his praise. Joyn voices all ye living Souls, ye Birds, That singing up to Heaven Gate ascend, Bear on your wings and in your notes his praise; Yee that in Waters glide, and yee that walk The Earth, and stately tread, or lowly creep; Witness if I be silent, Morn or Eeven, To Hill, or Valley, Fountain, or fresh shade Made vocal by my Song, and taught his praise. Hail universal Lord, be bounteous still To give us onely good; and if the night Have gathered aught of evil or conceald, Disperse it, as now light dispels the dark. So pray'd they innocent, and to thir thoughts Firm peace recoverd soon and wonted calm. On to thir mornings rural work they haste Among sweet dewes and flours; where any row Of Fruit-trees overwoodie reachd too farr Thir pamperd boughes, and needed hands to check Fruitless imbraces: or they led the Vine To wed her Elm; she spous'd about him twines Her mariageable arms, and with her brings Her dowr th' adopted Clusters, to adorn His barren leaves. Them thus imploid beheld With pittie Heav'ns high King, and to him call'd RAPHAEL, the sociable Spirit, that deign'd To travel with TOBIAS, and secur'd His marriage with the seaventimes-wedded Maid. RAPHAEL, said hee, thou hear'st what stir on Earth SATAN from Hell scap't through the darksom Gulf Hath raisd in Paradise, and how disturbd This night the human pair, how he designes In them at once to ruin all mankind. Go therefore, half this day as friend with friend Converse with ADAM, in what Bowre or shade Thou find'st him from the heat of Noon retir'd, To respit his day-labour with repast, Or with repose; and such discourse bring on, As may advise him of his happie state, Happiness in his power left free to will, Left to his own free Will, his Will though free, Yet mutable; whence warne him to beware He swerve not too secure: tell him withall His danger, and from whom, what enemie Late falln himself from Heav'n, is plotting now The fall of others from like state of bliss; By violence, no, for that shall be withstood, But by deceit and lies; this let him know, Least wilfully transgressing he pretend Surprisal, unadmonisht, unforewarnd. So spake th' Eternal Father, and fulfilld All Justice: nor delaid the winged Saint After his charge receivd, but from among Thousand Celestial Ardors, where he stood Vaild with his gorgeous wings, up springing light Flew through the midst of Heav'n; th' angelic Quires On each hand parting, to his speed gave way Through all th' Empyreal road; till at the Gate Of Heav'n arriv'd, the gate self-opend wide On golden Hinges turning, as by work Divine the sov'ran Architect had fram'd. From hence, no cloud, or, to obstruct his sight, Starr interpos'd, however small he sees, Not unconform to other shining Globes, Earth and the Gard'n of God, with Cedars crownd Above all Hills. As when by night the Glass Of GALILEO, less assur'd, observes Imagind Lands and Regions in the Moon: Or Pilot from amidst the CYCLADES DELOS or SAMOS first appeering kenns A cloudy spot. Down thither prone in flight He speeds, and through the vast Ethereal Skie Sailes between worlds & worlds, with steddie wing Now on the polar windes, then with quick Fann Winnows the buxom Air; till within soare Of Towring Eagles, to all the Fowles he seems A PHOENIX, gaz'd by all, as that sole Bird When to enshrine his reliques in the Sun's Bright Temple, to AEGYPTIAN THEB'S he flies. At once on th' Eastern cliff of Paradise He lights, and to his proper shape returns A Seraph wingd; six wings he wore, to shade His lineaments Divine; the pair that clad Each shoulder broad, came mantling o're his brest With regal Ornament; the middle pair Girt like a Starrie Zone his waste, and round Skirted his loines and thighes with downie Gold And colours dipt in Heav'n; the third his feet Shaddowd from either heele with featherd maile Skie-tinctur'd grain. Like MAIA'S son he stood, And shook his Plumes, that Heav'nly fragrance filld The circuit wide. Strait knew him all the bands Of Angels under watch; and to his state, And to his message high in honour rise; For on som message high they guessd him bound. Thir glittering Tents he passd, and now is come Into the blissful field, through Groves of Myrrhe, And flouring Odours, Cassia, Nard, and Balme; A Wilderness of sweets; for Nature here Wantond as in her prime, and plaid at will Her Virgin Fancies, pouring forth more sweet, Wilde above rule or art; enormous bliss. Him through the spicie Forrest onward com ADAM discernd, as in the dore he sat Of his coole Bowre, while now the mounted Sun Shot down direct his fervid Raies, to warme Earths inmost womb, more warmth then ADAM need; And EVE within, due at her hour prepar'd For dinner savourie fruits, of taste to please True appetite, and not disrelish thirst Of nectarous draughts between, from milkie stream, Berrie or Grape: to whom thus ADAM call'd. Haste hither EVE, and worth thy sight behold Eastward among those Trees, what glorious shape Comes this way moving; seems another Morn Ris'n on mid-noon; som great behest from Heav'n To us perhaps he brings, and will voutsafe This day to be our Guest. But goe with speed, And what thy stores contain, bring

goodwill

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

walk With Heav'nly touch of instrumental sounds In full harmonic number joind, thir songs Divide the night, and lift our thoughts to Heaven. Thus talking hand in hand alone they pass'd On to thir blissful Bower; it was a place Chos'n by the sovran Planter, when he fram'd All things to mans delightful use; the roofe Of thickest covert was inwoven shade Laurel and Mirtle, and what higher grew Of firm and fragrant leaf; on either side ACANTHUS, and each odorous bushie shrub Fenc'd up the verdant wall; each beauteous flour, IRIS all hues, Roses, and Gessamin Rear'd high thir flourisht heads between, and wrought Mosaic; underfoot the Violet, Crocus, and Hyacinth with rich inlay Broiderd the ground, more colour'd then with stone Of costliest Emblem: other Creature here Beast, Bird, Insect, or Worm durst enter none; Such was thir awe of man. In shadier Bower More sacred and sequesterd, though but feignd, PAN or SILVANUS never slept, nor Nymph, Nor FAUNUS haunted. Here in close recess With Flowers, Garlands, and sweet-smelling Herbs Espoused EVE deckt first her Nuptial Bed, And heav'nly Quires the Hymenaean sung, What day the genial Angel to our Sire Brought her in naked beauty more adorn'd, More lovely then PANDORA, whom the Gods Endowd with all thir gifts, and O too like In sad event, when to the unwiser Son Of JAPHET brought by HERMES, she ensnar'd Mankind with her faire looks, to be aveng'd On him who had stole JOVES authentic fire. Thus at thir shadie Lodge arriv'd, both stood, Both turnd, and under op'n Skie ador'd The God that made both Skie, Air, Earth & Heav'n Which they beheld, the Moons resplendent Globe And starrie Pole: Thou also mad'st the Night, Maker Omnipotent, and thou the Day, Which we in our appointed work imployd Have finisht happie in our mutual help And mutual love, the Crown of all our bliss Ordain'd by thee, and this delicious place For us too large, where thy abundance wants Partakers, and uncropt falls to the ground. But thou hast promis'd from us two a Race To fill the Earth, who shall with us extoll Thy goodness infinite, both when we wake, And when we seek, as now, thy gift of sleep. This said unanimous, and other Rites Observing none, but adoration pure Which God likes best, into thir inmost bower Handed they went; and eas'd the putting off These troublesom disguises which wee wear, Strait side by side were laid, nor turnd I weene ADAM from his fair Spouse, nor EVE the Rites Mysterious of connubial Love refus'd: Whatever Hypocrites austerely talk Of puritie and place and innocence, Defaming as impure what God declares Pure, and commands to som, leaves free to all. Our Maker bids increase, who bids abstain But our Destroyer, foe to God and Man? Haile wedded Love, mysterious Law, true source Of human ofspring, sole proprietie, In Paradise of all things common else. By thee adulterous lust was driv'n from men Among the bestial herds to raunge, by thee Founded in Reason, Loyal, Just, and Pure, Relations dear, and all the Charities Of Father, Son, and Brother first were known. Farr be it, that I should write thee sin or blame, Or think thee unbefitting holiest place, Perpetual Fountain of Domestic sweets, Whose Bed is undefil'd and chast pronounc't, Present, or past, as Saints and Patriarchs us'd. Here Love his golden shafts imploies, here lights His constant Lamp, and waves his purple wings, Reigns here and revels; not in the bought smile Of Harlots, loveless, joyless, unindeard, Casual fruition, nor in Court Amours Mixt Dance, or wanton Mask, or Midnight Bal, Or Serenate, which the starv'd Lover sings To his proud fair, best quitted with disdain. These lulld by Nightingales imbraceing slept, And on thir naked limbs the flourie roof Showrd Roses, which the Morn repair'd. Sleep on, Blest pair; and O yet happiest if ye seek No happier state, and know to know no more. Now had night measur'd with her shaddowie Cone Half way up Hill this vast Sublunar Vault, And from thir Ivorie Port the Cherubim Forth issuing at th' accustomd hour stood armd To thir night watches in warlike Parade, When GABRIEL to his next in power thus spake. UZZIEL, half these draw off, and coast the South With strictest watch; these other wheel the North, Our circuit meets full West. As flame they part Half wheeling to the Shield, half to the Spear. From these, two strong and suttle Spirits he calld That neer him stood, and gave them thus in charge. ITHURIEL and ZEPHON, with wingd speed Search through this Garden, leav unsearcht no nook, But chiefly where those two fair Creatures Lodge, Now laid perhaps asleep secure of harme. This Eevning from the Sun's decline arriv'd Who tells of som infernal Spirit seen Hitherward bent (who could have thought?) escap'd The barrs of Hell, on errand bad no doubt: Such where ye find, seise fast, and hither bring. So saying, on he led his radiant Files, Daz'ling the Moon; these to the Bower direct In search of whom they sought: him there they found Squat like a Toad, close at the eare of EVE; Assaying by his Devilish art to reach The Organs of her Fancie, and with them forge Illusions as he list, Phantasms and Dreams, Or if, inspiring venom, he might taint Th' animal Spirits that from pure blood arise Like gentle breaths from Rivers pure, thence raise At least distemperd, discontented thoughts, Vain hopes, vain aimes, inordinate desires Blown up with high conceits ingendring pride. Him thus intent ITHURIEL with his Spear Touch'd lightly; for no falshood can endure Touch of Celestial temper, but returns Of force to its own likeness: up he starts Discoverd and surpriz'd. As when a spark Lights on a heap of nitrous Powder, laid Fit for the Tun som Magazin to store Against a rumord Warr, the Smuttie graine With sudden blaze diffus'd, inflames the Aire: So started up in his own shape the Fiend. Back stept those two fair Angels half amaz'd So sudden to behold the grieslie King; Yet thus, unmovd with fear, accost him soon. Which of those rebell Spirits adjudg'd to Hell Com'st thou, escap'd thy prison, and transform'd, Why satst thou like an enemie in waite Here watching at the head of these that sleep? Know ye not then said SATAN, filld with scorn, Know ye not me? ye knew me once no mate For you, there sitting where ye durst not soare; Not to know mee argues your selves unknown, The lowest of your throng; or if ye know, Why ask ye, and superfluous begin Your message, like to end as much in vain? To whom thus ZEPHON, answering scorn with scorn. Think not, revolted Spirit, thy shape the same, Or undiminisht brightness, to be known As when thou stoodst in Heav'n upright and pure; That Glorie then, when thou no more wast good, Departed from thee, and thou resembl'st now Thy sin and place of doom obscure and foule. But come, for thou, be sure, shalt give account To him who sent us, whose charge is to keep This place inviolable, and these from harm. So spake the Cherube, and his grave rebuke Severe in youthful beautie, added grace Invincible: abasht the Devil stood, And felt how awful goodness is, and saw Vertue in her shape how lovly, saw, and pin'd His loss; but chiefly to find here observd His lustre visibly impar'd; yet seemd Undaunted. If I must contend, said he, Best with the best, the Sender not the sent, Or all at once; more glorie will be wonn, Or less be lost. Thy fear, said ZEPHON bold, Will save us trial what the least can doe Single against thee wicked, and thence weak. The Fiend repli'd not, overcome with rage; But like a proud Steed reind, went hautie on, Chaumping his iron curb: to strive or flie He held it vain; awe from above had quelld His heart, not else dismai'd. Now drew they nigh The western point, where those half-rounding guards Just met, & closing stood in squadron joind Awaiting next command. To whom thir Chief GABRIEL from the Front thus calld aloud. O friends, I hear the tread of nimble feet Hasting this way, and now by glimps discerne ITHURIEL and ZEPHON through the shade, And with them comes a third of Regal port, But faded splendor wan; who by his gate And fierce demeanour seems the Prince of Hell, Not likely to part hence without contest; Stand firm, for in his look defiance lours. He scarce had ended, when those two approachd And brief related whom they brought, wher found, How busied, in what form and posture coucht. To whom with stern regard thus GABRIEL spake. Why hast thou, SATAN, broke the bounds prescrib'd To thy transgressions, and disturbd the charge Of others, who approve not to transgress By thy example, but have power and right To question thy bold entrance on this place; Imploi'd it seems to violate sleep, and those Whose dwelling God hath planted here in bliss? To whom thus SATAN with contemptuous brow. GABRIEL, thou hadst in Heav'n th' esteem of wise, And such I held thee; but this question askt Puts me in doubt. Lives ther who loves his pain? Who would not, finding way, break loose from Hell, Though thither doomd? Thou wouldst thy self, no doubt, And boldly venture to whatever place Farthest from pain, where thou mightst hope to change Torment with ease, & soonest recompence Dole with delight, which in this place I sought; To thee no reason; who knowst only good, But evil hast not tri'd: and wilt object His will who bound us? let him surer barr His Iron Gates, if he intends our stay In that dark durance: thus much what was askt. The rest is true, they found me where they say; But that implies not violence or harme. Thus hee in scorn. The warlike Angel mov'd, Disdainfully half smiling thus repli'd. O loss of one in Heav'n to judge of wise, Since SATAN fell, whom follie overthrew, And now returns him from his prison scap't, Gravely in doubt whether to hold them wise Or not, who ask what boldness brought him hither Unlicenc't from his bounds in Hell prescrib'd; So wise he judges it to fly from pain However, and to scape his punishment. So judge thou still, presumptuous, till the wrauth, Which thou incurr'st by flying, meet thy flight Seavenfold, and scourge that wisdom back to Hell, Which taught thee yet no better, that no pain Can equal anger infinite provok't. But wherefore thou alone? wherefore with thee Came not all Hell broke loose? is pain to them Less pain, less to be fled, or thou then they Less hardie to endure? courageous Chief, The first in flight from pain, had'st thou alleg'd To thy deserted host this cause of flight, Thou surely hadst not come sole fugitive. To which the Fiend thus answerd frowning stern. Not that I less endure, or shrink from pain, Insulting Angel, well thou knowst I stood Thy fiercest, when in Battel to thy aide The blasting volied Thunder made all speed And seconded thy else not dreaded Spear. But still thy words at random, as before, Argue thy inexperience what behooves From hard assaies and ill successes past A faithful Leader, not to hazard all Through wayes of danger by himself untri'd. I therefore, I alone first undertook To wing the desolate Abyss, and spie This new created World, whereof in Hell Fame is not silent, here in hope to find Better abode, and my afflicted Powers To settle here on Earth, or in mid Aire; Though for possession put to try once more What thou and thy gay Legions dare against; Whose easier business were to serve thir Lord High up in Heav'n, with songs to hymne his Throne, And practis'd distances to cringe, not fight. To whom the warriour Angel soon repli'd. To say and strait unsay, pretending first Wise to flie pain, professing next the Spie, Argues no Leader, but a lyar trac't, SATAN, and couldst thou faithful add? O name, O sacred name of faithfulness profan'd! Faithful to whom? to thy rebellious crew? Armie of Fiends, fit body to fit head; Was this your discipline and faith ingag'd, Your military obedience, to dissolve Allegeance to th' acknowledg'd Power supream? And thou sly hypocrite, who now wouldst seem Patron of liberty, who more then thou Once fawn'd, and cring'd, and servilly ador'd Heav'ns awful Monarch? wherefore but in hope To dispossess him, and thy self to reigne? But mark what I arreede thee now, avant; Flie thither whence thou fledst: if from this houre Within these hallowd limits thou appeer, Back to th' infernal pit I drag thee chaind, And Seale thee so, as henceforth not to scorne The facil gates of hell too slightly barrd. So threatn'd hee, but SATAN to no threats Gave heed, but waxing more in rage repli'd. Then when I am thy captive talk of chaines, Proud limitarie Cherube, but ere then Farr heavier load thy self expect to feel From my prevailing arme, though Heavens King Ride on thy wings, and thou with thy Compeers, Us'd to the yoak, draw'st his triumphant wheels In progress through the rode of Heav'n Star-pav'd. While thus he spake, th' Angelic Squadron bright Turnd fierie red, sharpning in mooned hornes Thir Phalanx, and began to hemm him round With ported Spears, as thick as when a field Of CERES ripe for harvest waving bends Her bearded Grove of ears, which way the wind Swayes them; the careful Plowman doubting stands Least on the threshing floore his hopeful sheaves Prove chaff. On th' other side SATAN allarm'd Collecting all his might dilated stood, Like TENERIFF or ATLAS unremov'd: His stature reacht the Skie, and on his Crest Sat horror Plum'd; nor wanted in his graspe What seemd both Spear and Shield: now dreadful deeds Might have ensu'd, nor onely Paradise In this commotion, but the Starrie Cope Of Heav'n perhaps, or all the Elements At least had gon to rack, disturbd and torne With violence of this conflict, had not soon Th' Eternal to prevent such horrid fray Hung forth in Heav'n his golden Scales, yet seen Betwixt ASTREA and the SCORPION signe, Wherein all things created first he weighd, The pendulous round Earth with ballanc't Aire In counterpoise, now ponders all events, Battels and Realms: in these he put two weights The sequel each of parting and of fight; The latter quick up flew, and kickt the beam; Which GABRIEL spying, thus bespake the Fiend. SATAN, I know thy strength, and thou knowst mine, Neither our own but giv'n; what follie then To boast what Arms can doe, since thine no more Then Heav'n permits, nor mine, though doubld now To trample thee as mire: for proof look up, And read thy Lot in yon celestial Sign Where thou art weigh'd, & shown how light, how weak, If thou resist. The Fiend lookt up and knew His mounted scale aloft: nor more; but fled Murmuring, and with him fled the shades of night. THE END OF THE FOURTH BOOK. PARADISE LOST BOOK V. Now Morn her rosie steps in th' Eastern Clime Advancing, sow'd the Earth with Orient Pearle, When ADAM wak't, so customd, for his sleep Was Aerie light, from pure digestion bred, And temperat vapors bland, which th' only sound Of leaves and fuming rills, AURORA's fan, Lightly dispers'd, and the shrill Matin Song Of Birds on every bough; so much the more His wonder was to find unwak'nd EVE With Tresses discompos'd, and glowing Cheek, As through unquiet rest: he on his side Leaning half-rais'd, with looks of cordial Love Hung over her enamour'd, and beheld Beautie, which whether waking or asleep, Shot forth peculiar Graces; then with voice Milde, as when ZEPHYRUS on FLORA breathes, Her hand soft touching, whisperd thus. Awake My fairest, my espous'd, my latest found, Heav'ns last best gift, my ever new delight, Awake, the morning shines, and the fresh field Calls us, we lose the prime, to mark how spring Our tended Plants, how blows the Citron Grove, What drops the Myrrhe, & what the balmie Reed, How Nature paints her colours, how the Bee Sits on the Bloom extracting liquid sweet. Such whispering wak'd her, but with startl'd eye On ADAM, whom imbracing, thus she spake. O Sole in whom my thoughts find all repose, My Glorie, my Perfection, glad I see Thy face, and Morn return'd, for I this Night, Such night till this I never pass'd, have dream'd, If dream'd, not as I oft am wont, of thee, Works of day pass't, or morrows next designe, But of offence and trouble, which my mind Knew never till this irksom night; methought Close at mine ear one call'd me forth to walk With gentle voice, I thought it thine; it said, Why sleepst thou EVE? now is the pleasant time, The cool, the silent, save where silence yields To the night-warbling Bird, that now awake Tunes sweetest his love-labor'd song; now reignes Full Orb'd the Moon, and with more pleasing light Shadowie sets off the face of things; in vain, If none regard; Heav'n wakes with all his eyes, Whom to behold but thee, Natures desire, In whose sight all things joy, with ravishment Attracted by thy beauty still to gaze. I rose as at thy call, but found thee not; To find thee I directed then my walk; And on, methought, alone I pass'd through ways That brought me on a sudden to the Tree Of interdicted Knowledge: fair it seem'd, Much fairer to my Fancie then by day: And as I wondring lookt, beside it stood One shap'd & wing'd like one of those from Heav'n By us oft seen; his dewie locks distill'd Ambrosia; on that Tree he also gaz'd; And O fair Plant, said he, with fruit surcharg'd, Deigns none to ease thy load and taste thy sweet, Nor God, nor Man; is Knowledge so despis'd? Or envie, or what reserve forbids to taste? Forbid who will, none shall from me withhold Longer thy offerd good, why else set here? This said he paus'd not, but with ventrous Arme He pluckt, he tasted; mee damp horror chil'd At such bold words voucht with a deed so bold: But he thus overjoy'd, O Fruit Divine, Sweet of thy self, but much more sweet thus cropt, Forbidd'n here, it seems, as onely fit For Gods, yet able to make Gods of Men: And why not Gods of Men, since good, the more Communicated, more abundant growes, The Author not impair'd, but honourd more? Here, happie Creature, fair Angelic EVE, Partake thou also; happie though thou art, Happier thou mayst be, worthier canst not be: Taste this, and be henceforth among the Gods Thy self a Goddess, not to Earth confind, But somtimes in the Air, as wee, somtimes Ascend to Heav'n, by merit thine, and see What life the Gods live there, and such live thou. So saying, he drew nigh, and to me held, Even to my mouth of that same fruit held part Which he had pluckt; the pleasant savourie smell So quick'nd appetite, that I, methought, Could not but taste. Forthwith up to the Clouds With him I flew, and underneath beheld The Earth outstretcht immense, a prospect wide And various: wondring at my flight and change To this high exaltation; suddenly My Guide was gon, and I, me thought, sunk down, And fell asleep; but O how glad I wak'd To find this but a dream! Thus EVE her Night Related, and thus ADAM answerd sad. Best Image of my self and dearer half, The trouble of thy thoughts this night in sleep Affects me equally; nor can I like This uncouth dream, of evil sprung I fear; Yet evil whence? in thee can harbour none, Created pure. But know that in the Soule Are many lesser Faculties that serve Reason as chief; among these Fansie next Her office holds; of all external things, Which the five watchful Senses represent, She forms Imaginations, Aerie shapes, Which Reason joyning or disjoyning, frames All what we affirm or what deny, and call Our knowledge or opinion; then retires Into her private Cell when Nature rests. Oft in her absence mimic Fansie wakes To imitate her; but misjoyning shapes, Wilde work produces oft, and most in dreams, Ill matching words and deeds long past or late. Som such resemblances methinks I find Of our last Eevnings talk, in this thy dream, But with addition strange; yet be not sad. Evil into the mind of God or Man May come and go, so unapprov'd, and leave No spot or blame behind: Which gives me hope That what in sleep thou didst abhorr to dream, Waking thou never wilt consent to do. Be not disheart'nd then, nor cloud those looks That wont to be more chearful and serene Then when fair Morning first smiles on the World, And let us to our fresh imployments rise Among the Groves, the Fountains, and the Flours That open now thir choicest bosom'd smells Reservd from night, and kept for thee in store. So cheard he his fair Spouse, and she was cheard, But silently a gentle tear let fall From either eye, and wip'd them with her haire; Two other precious drops that ready stood, Each in thir chrystal sluce, hee ere they fell Kiss'd as the gracious signs of sweet remorse And pious awe, that feard to have offended. So all was cleard, and to the Field they haste. But first from under shadie arborous roof, Soon as they forth were come to open sight Of day-spring, and the Sun, who scarce up risen With wheels yet hov'ring o're the Ocean brim, Shot paralel to the earth his dewie ray, Discovering in wide Lantskip all the East Of Paradise and EDENS happie Plains, Lowly they bow'd adoring, and began Thir Orisons, each Morning duly paid In various style, for neither various style Nor holy rapture wanted they to praise Thir Maker, in fit strains pronounc't or sung Unmeditated, such prompt eloquence Flowd from thir lips, in Prose or numerous Verse, More tuneable then needed Lute or Harp To add more sweetness, and they thus began. These are thy glorious works, Parent of good, Almightie, thine this universal Frame, Thus wondrous fair; thy self how wondrous then! Unspeakable, who sitst above these Heavens To us invisible or dimly seen In these thy lowest works, yet these declare Thy goodness beyond thought, and Power Divine: Speak yee who best can tell, ye Sons of light, Angels, for yee behold him, and with songs And choral symphonies, Day without Night, Circle his Throne rejoycing, yee in Heav'n, On Earth joyn all yee Creatures to extoll Him first, him last, him midst, and without end. Fairest of Starrs, last in the train of Night, If better thou belong not to the dawn, Sure pledge of day, that crownst the smiling Morn With thy bright Circlet, praise him in thy Spheare While day arises, that sweet hour of Prime. Thou Sun, of this great World both Eye and Soule, Acknowledge him thy Greater, sound his praise In thy eternal course, both when thou climb'st, And when high Noon hast gaind, & when thou fallst. Moon, that now meetst the orient Sun, now fli'st With the fixt Starrs, fixt in thir Orb that flies, And yee five other wandring Fires that move In mystic Dance not without Song, resound His praise, who out of Darkness call'd up Light. Aire, and ye Elements the eldest birth Of Natures Womb, that in quaternion run Perpetual Circle, multiform; and mix And nourish all things, let your ceasless change Varie to our great Maker still new praise. Ye Mists and Exhalations that now rise From Hill or steaming Lake, duskie or grey, Till the Sun paint your fleecie skirts with Gold, In honour to the Worlds great Author rise, Whether to deck with Clouds the uncolourd skie, Or wet the thirstie Earth with falling showers, Rising or falling still advance his praise. His praise ye Winds, that from four Quarters blow, Breath soft or loud; and wave your tops, ye Pines, With every Plant, in sign of Worship wave. Fountains and yee, that warble, as ye flow, Melodious murmurs, warbling tune his praise. Joyn voices all ye living Souls, ye Birds, That singing up to Heaven Gate ascend, Bear on your wings and in your notes his praise; Yee that in Waters glide, and yee that walk The Earth, and stately tread, or lowly creep; Witness if I be silent, Morn or Eeven, To Hill, or Valley, Fountain, or fresh shade Made vocal by my Song, and taught his praise. Hail universal Lord, be bounteous still To give us onely good; and if the night Have gathered aught of evil or conceald, Disperse it, as now light dispels the dark. So pray'd they innocent, and to thir thoughts Firm peace recoverd soon and wonted calm. On to thir mornings rural work they haste Among sweet dewes and flours; where any row Of Fruit-trees overwoodie reachd too farr Thir pamperd boughes, and needed hands to check Fruitless imbraces: or they led the Vine To wed her Elm; she spous'd about him twines Her mariageable arms, and with her brings Her dowr th' adopted Clusters, to adorn His barren leaves. Them thus imploid beheld With pittie Heav'ns high King, and to him call'd RAPHAEL, the sociable Spirit, that deign'd To travel with TOBIAS, and secur'd His marriage with the seaventimes-wedded Maid. RAPHAEL, said hee, thou hear'st what stir on Earth SATAN from Hell scap't through the darksom Gulf Hath raisd in Paradise, and how disturbd This night the human pair, how he designes In them at once to ruin all mankind. Go therefore, half this day as friend with friend Converse with ADAM, in what Bowre or shade Thou find'st him from the heat of Noon retir'd, To respit his day-labour with repast, Or with repose; and such discourse bring on, As may advise him of his happie state, Happiness in his power left free to will, Left to his own free Will, his Will though free, Yet mutable; whence warne him to beware He swerve not too secure: tell him withall His danger, and from whom, what enemie Late falln himself from Heav'n, is plotting now The fall of others from like state of bliss; By violence, no, for that shall be withstood, But by deceit and lies; this let him know, Least wilfully transgressing he pretend Surprisal, unadmonisht, unforewarnd. So spake th' Eternal Father, and fulfilld All Justice: nor delaid the winged Saint After his charge receivd, but from among Thousand Celestial Ardors, where he stood Vaild with his gorgeous wings, up springing light Flew through the midst of Heav'n; th' angelic Quires On each hand parting, to his speed gave way Through all th' Empyreal road; till at the Gate Of Heav'n arriv'd, the gate self-opend wide On golden Hinges turning, as by work Divine the sov'ran Architect had fram'd. From hence, no cloud, or, to obstruct his sight, Starr interpos'd, however small he sees, Not unconform to other shining Globes, Earth and the Gard'n of God, with Cedars crownd Above all Hills. As when by night the Glass Of GALILEO, less assur'd, observes Imagind Lands and Regions in the Moon: Or Pilot from amidst the CYCLADES DELOS or SAMOS first appeering kenns A cloudy spot. Down thither prone in flight He speeds, and through the vast Ethereal Skie Sailes between worlds & worlds, with steddie wing Now on the polar windes, then with quick Fann Winnows the buxom Air; till within soare Of Towring Eagles, to all the Fowles he seems A PHOENIX, gaz'd by all, as that sole Bird When to enshrine his reliques in the Sun's Bright Temple, to AEGYPTIAN THEB'S he flies. At once on th' Eastern cliff of Paradise He lights, and to his proper shape returns A Seraph wingd; six wings he wore, to shade His lineaments Divine; the pair that clad Each shoulder broad, came mantling o're his brest With regal Ornament; the middle pair Girt like a Starrie Zone his waste, and round Skirted his loines and thighes with downie Gold And colours dipt in Heav'n; the third his feet Shaddowd from either heele with featherd maile Skie-tinctur'd grain. Like MAIA'S son he stood, And shook his Plumes, that Heav'nly fragrance filld The circuit wide. Strait knew him all the bands Of Angels under watch; and to his state, And to his message high in honour rise; For on som message high they guessd him bound. Thir glittering Tents he passd, and now is come Into the blissful field, through Groves of Myrrhe, And flouring Odours, Cassia, Nard, and Balme; A Wilderness of sweets; for Nature here Wantond as in her prime, and plaid at will Her Virgin Fancies, pouring forth more sweet, Wilde above rule or art; enormous bliss. Him through the spicie Forrest onward com ADAM discernd, as in the dore he sat Of his coole Bowre, while now the mounted Sun Shot down direct his fervid Raies, to warme Earths inmost womb, more warmth then ADAM need; And EVE within, due at her hour prepar'd For dinner savourie fruits, of taste to please True appetite, and not disrelish thirst Of nectarous draughts between, from milkie stream, Berrie or Grape: to whom thus ADAM call'd. Haste hither EVE, and worth thy sight behold Eastward among those Trees, what glorious shape Comes this way moving; seems another Morn Ris'n on mid-noon; som great behest from Heav'n To us perhaps he brings, and will voutsafe This day to be our Guest. But goe with speed, And what thy stores contain, bring

thir

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

walk With Heav'nly touch of instrumental sounds In full harmonic number joind, thir songs Divide the night, and lift our thoughts to Heaven. Thus talking hand in hand alone they pass'd On to thir blissful Bower; it was a place Chos'n by the sovran Planter, when he fram'd All things to mans delightful use; the roofe Of thickest covert was inwoven shade Laurel and Mirtle, and what higher grew Of firm and fragrant leaf; on either side ACANTHUS, and each odorous bushie shrub Fenc'd up the verdant wall; each beauteous flour, IRIS all hues, Roses, and Gessamin Rear'd high thir flourisht heads between, and wrought Mosaic; underfoot the Violet, Crocus, and Hyacinth with rich inlay Broiderd the ground, more colour'd then with stone Of costliest Emblem: other Creature here Beast, Bird, Insect, or Worm durst enter none; Such was thir awe of man. In shadier Bower More sacred and sequesterd, though but feignd, PAN or SILVANUS never slept, nor Nymph, Nor FAUNUS haunted. Here in close recess With Flowers, Garlands, and sweet-smelling Herbs Espoused EVE deckt first her Nuptial Bed, And heav'nly Quires the Hymenaean sung, What day the genial Angel to our Sire Brought her in naked beauty more adorn'd, More lovely then PANDORA, whom the Gods Endowd with all thir gifts, and O too like In sad event, when to the unwiser Son Of JAPHET brought by HERMES, she ensnar'd Mankind with her faire looks, to be aveng'd On him who had stole JOVES authentic fire. Thus at thir shadie Lodge arriv'd, both stood, Both turnd, and under op'n Skie ador'd The God that made both Skie, Air, Earth & Heav'n Which they beheld, the Moons resplendent Globe And starrie Pole: Thou also mad'st the Night, Maker Omnipotent, and thou the Day, Which we in our appointed work imployd Have finisht happie in our mutual help And mutual love, the Crown of all our bliss Ordain'd by thee, and this delicious place For us too large, where thy abundance wants Partakers, and uncropt falls to the ground. But thou hast promis'd from us two a Race To fill the Earth, who shall with us extoll Thy goodness infinite, both when we wake, And when we seek, as now, thy gift of sleep. This said unanimous, and other Rites Observing none, but adoration pure Which God likes best, into thir inmost bower Handed they went; and eas'd the putting off These troublesom disguises which wee wear, Strait side by side were laid, nor turnd I weene ADAM from his fair Spouse, nor EVE the Rites Mysterious of connubial Love refus'd: Whatever Hypocrites austerely talk Of puritie and place and innocence, Defaming as impure what God declares Pure, and commands to som, leaves free to all. Our Maker bids increase, who bids abstain But our Destroyer, foe to God and Man? Haile wedded Love, mysterious Law, true source Of human ofspring, sole proprietie, In Paradise of all things common else. By thee adulterous lust was driv'n from men Among the bestial herds to raunge, by thee Founded in Reason, Loyal, Just, and Pure, Relations dear, and all the Charities Of Father, Son, and Brother first were known. Farr be it, that I should write thee sin or blame, Or think thee unbefitting holiest place, Perpetual Fountain of Domestic sweets, Whose Bed is undefil'd and chast pronounc't, Present, or past, as Saints and Patriarchs us'd. Here Love his golden shafts imploies, here lights His constant Lamp, and waves his purple wings, Reigns here and revels; not in the bought smile Of Harlots, loveless, joyless, unindeard, Casual fruition, nor in Court Amours Mixt Dance, or wanton Mask, or Midnight Bal, Or Serenate, which the starv'd Lover sings To his proud fair, best quitted with disdain. These lulld by Nightingales imbraceing slept, And on thir naked limbs the flourie roof Showrd Roses, which the Morn repair'd. Sleep on, Blest pair; and O yet happiest if ye seek No happier state, and know to know no more. Now had night measur'd with her shaddowie Cone Half way up Hill this vast Sublunar Vault, And from thir Ivorie Port the Cherubim Forth issuing at th' accustomd hour stood armd To thir night watches in warlike Parade, When GABRIEL to his next in power thus spake. UZZIEL, half these draw off, and coast the South With strictest watch; these other wheel the North, Our circuit meets full West. As flame they part Half wheeling to the Shield, half to the Spear. From these, two strong and suttle Spirits he calld That neer him stood, and gave them thus in charge. ITHURIEL and ZEPHON, with wingd speed Search through this Garden, leav unsearcht no nook, But chiefly where those two fair Creatures Lodge, Now laid perhaps asleep secure of harme. This Eevning from the Sun's decline arriv'd Who tells of som infernal Spirit seen Hitherward bent (who could have thought?) escap'd The barrs of Hell, on errand bad no doubt: Such where ye find, seise fast, and hither bring. So saying, on he led his radiant Files, Daz'ling the Moon; these to the Bower direct In search of whom they sought: him there they found Squat like a Toad, close at the eare of EVE; Assaying by his Devilish art to reach The Organs of her Fancie, and with them forge Illusions as he list, Phantasms and Dreams, Or if, inspiring venom, he might taint Th' animal Spirits that from pure blood arise Like gentle breaths from Rivers pure, thence raise At least distemperd, discontented thoughts, Vain hopes, vain aimes, inordinate desires Blown up with high conceits ingendring pride. Him thus intent ITHURIEL with his Spear Touch'd lightly; for no falshood can endure Touch of Celestial temper, but returns Of force to its own likeness: up he starts Discoverd and surpriz'd. As when a spark Lights on a heap of nitrous Powder, laid Fit for the Tun som Magazin to store Against a rumord Warr, the Smuttie graine With sudden blaze diffus'd, inflames the Aire: So started up in his own shape the Fiend. Back stept those two fair Angels half amaz'd So sudden to behold the grieslie King; Yet thus, unmovd with fear, accost him soon. Which of those rebell Spirits adjudg'd to Hell Com'st thou, escap'd thy prison, and transform'd, Why satst thou like an enemie in waite Here watching at the head of these that sleep? Know ye not then said SATAN, filld with scorn, Know ye not me? ye knew me once no mate For you, there sitting where ye durst not soare; Not to know mee argues your selves unknown, The lowest of your throng; or if ye know, Why ask ye, and superfluous begin Your message, like to end as much in vain? To whom thus ZEPHON, answering scorn with scorn. Think not, revolted Spirit, thy shape the same, Or undiminisht brightness, to be known As when thou stoodst in Heav'n upright and pure; That Glorie then, when thou no more wast good, Departed from thee, and thou resembl'st now Thy sin and place of doom obscure and foule. But come, for thou, be sure, shalt give account To him who sent us, whose charge is to keep This place inviolable, and these from harm. So spake the Cherube, and his grave rebuke Severe in youthful beautie, added grace Invincible: abasht the Devil stood, And felt how awful goodness is, and saw Vertue in her shape how lovly, saw, and pin'd His loss; but chiefly to find here observd His lustre visibly impar'd; yet seemd Undaunted. If I must contend, said he, Best with the best, the Sender not the sent, Or all at once; more glorie will be wonn, Or less be lost. Thy fear, said ZEPHON bold, Will save us trial what the least can doe Single against thee wicked, and thence weak. The Fiend repli'd not, overcome with rage; But like a proud Steed reind, went hautie on, Chaumping his iron curb: to strive or flie He held it vain; awe from above had quelld His heart, not else dismai'd. Now drew they nigh The western point, where those half-rounding guards Just met, & closing stood in squadron joind Awaiting next command. To whom thir Chief GABRIEL from the Front thus calld aloud. O friends, I hear the tread of nimble feet Hasting this way, and now by glimps discerne ITHURIEL and ZEPHON through the shade, And with them comes a third of Regal port, But faded splendor wan; who by his gate And fierce demeanour seems the Prince of Hell, Not likely to part hence without contest; Stand firm, for in his look defiance lours. He scarce had ended, when those two approachd And brief related whom they brought, wher found, How busied, in what form and posture coucht. To whom with stern regard thus GABRIEL spake. Why hast thou, SATAN, broke the bounds prescrib'd To thy transgressions, and disturbd the charge Of others, who approve not to transgress By thy example, but have power and right To question thy bold entrance on this place; Imploi'd it seems to violate sleep, and those Whose dwelling God hath planted here in bliss? To whom thus SATAN with contemptuous brow. GABRIEL, thou hadst in Heav'n th' esteem of wise, And such I held thee; but this question askt Puts me in doubt. Lives ther who loves his pain? Who would not, finding way, break loose from Hell, Though thither doomd? Thou wouldst thy self, no doubt, And boldly venture to whatever place Farthest from pain, where thou mightst hope to change Torment with ease, & soonest recompence Dole with delight, which in this place I sought; To thee no reason; who knowst only good, But evil hast not tri'd: and wilt object His will who bound us? let him surer barr His Iron Gates, if he intends our stay In that dark durance: thus much what was askt. The rest is true, they found me where they say; But that implies not violence or harme. Thus hee in scorn. The warlike Angel mov'd, Disdainfully half smiling thus repli'd. O loss of one in Heav'n to judge of wise, Since SATAN fell, whom follie overthrew, And now returns him from his prison scap't, Gravely in doubt whether to hold them wise Or not, who ask what boldness brought him hither Unlicenc't from his bounds in Hell prescrib'd; So wise he judges it to fly from pain However, and to scape his punishment. So judge thou still, presumptuous, till the wrauth, Which thou incurr'st by flying, meet thy flight Seavenfold, and scourge that wisdom back to Hell, Which taught thee yet no better, that no pain Can equal anger infinite provok't. But wherefore thou alone? wherefore with thee Came not all Hell broke loose? is pain to them Less pain, less to be fled, or thou then they Less hardie to endure? courageous Chief, The first in flight from pain, had'st thou alleg'd To thy deserted host this cause of flight, Thou surely hadst not come sole fugitive. To which the Fiend thus answerd frowning stern. Not that I less endure, or shrink from pain, Insulting Angel, well thou knowst I stood Thy fiercest, when in Battel to thy aide The blasting volied Thunder made all speed And seconded thy else not dreaded Spear. But still thy words at random, as before, Argue thy inexperience what behooves From hard assaies and ill successes past A faithful Leader, not to hazard all Through wayes of danger by himself untri'd. I therefore, I alone first undertook To wing the desolate Abyss, and spie This new created World, whereof in Hell Fame is not silent, here in hope to find Better abode, and my afflicted Powers To settle here on Earth, or in mid Aire; Though for possession put to try once more What thou and thy gay Legions dare against; Whose easier business were to serve thir Lord High up in Heav'n, with songs to hymne his Throne, And practis'd distances to cringe, not fight. To whom the warriour Angel soon repli'd. To say and strait unsay, pretending first Wise to flie pain, professing next the Spie, Argues no Leader, but a lyar trac't, SATAN, and couldst thou faithful add? O name, O sacred name of faithfulness profan'd! Faithful to whom? to thy rebellious crew? Armie of Fiends, fit body to fit head; Was this your discipline and faith ingag'd, Your military obedience, to dissolve Allegeance to th' acknowledg'd Power supream? And thou sly hypocrite, who now wouldst seem Patron of liberty, who more then thou Once fawn'd, and cring'd, and servilly ador'd Heav'ns awful Monarch? wherefore but in hope To dispossess him, and thy self to reigne? But mark what I arreede thee now, avant; Flie thither whence thou fledst: if from this houre Within these hallowd limits thou appeer, Back to th' infernal pit I drag thee chaind, And Seale thee so, as henceforth not to scorne The facil gates of hell too slightly barrd. So threatn'd hee, but SATAN to no threats Gave heed, but waxing more in rage repli'd. Then when I am thy captive talk of chaines, Proud limitarie Cherube, but ere then Farr heavier load thy self expect to feel From my prevailing arme, though Heavens King Ride on thy wings, and thou with thy Compeers, Us'd to the yoak, draw'st his triumphant wheels In progress through the rode of Heav'n Star-pav'd. While thus he spake, th' Angelic Squadron bright Turnd fierie red, sharpning in mooned hornes Thir Phalanx, and began to hemm him round With ported Spears, as thick as when a field Of CERES ripe for harvest waving bends Her bearded Grove of ears, which way the wind Swayes them; the careful Plowman doubting stands Least on the threshing floore his hopeful sheaves Prove chaff. On th' other side SATAN allarm'd Collecting all his might dilated stood, Like TENERIFF or ATLAS unremov'd: His stature reacht the Skie, and on his Crest Sat horror Plum'd; nor wanted in his graspe What seemd both Spear and Shield: now dreadful deeds Might have ensu'd, nor onely Paradise In this commotion, but the Starrie Cope Of Heav'n perhaps, or all the Elements At least had gon to rack, disturbd and torne With violence of this conflict, had not soon Th' Eternal to prevent such horrid fray Hung forth in Heav'n his golden Scales, yet seen Betwixt ASTREA and the SCORPION signe, Wherein all things created first he weighd, The pendulous round Earth with ballanc't Aire In counterpoise, now ponders all events, Battels and Realms: in these he put two weights The sequel each of parting and of fight; The latter quick up flew, and kickt the beam; Which GABRIEL spying, thus bespake the Fiend. SATAN, I know thy strength, and thou knowst mine, Neither our own but giv'n; what follie then To boast what Arms can doe, since thine no more Then Heav'n permits, nor mine, though doubld now To trample thee as mire: for proof look up, And read thy Lot in yon celestial Sign Where thou art weigh'd, & shown how light, how weak, If thou resist. The Fiend lookt up and knew His mounted scale aloft: nor more; but fled Murmuring, and with him fled the shades of night. THE END OF THE FOURTH BOOK. PARADISE LOST BOOK V. Now Morn her rosie steps in th' Eastern Clime Advancing, sow'd the Earth with Orient Pearle, When ADAM wak't, so customd, for his sleep Was Aerie light, from pure digestion bred, And temperat vapors bland, which th' only sound Of leaves and fuming rills, AURORA's fan, Lightly dispers'd, and the shrill Matin Song Of Birds on every bough; so much the more His wonder was to find unwak'nd EVE With Tresses discompos'd, and glowing Cheek, As through unquiet rest: he on his side Leaning half-rais'd, with looks of cordial Love Hung over her enamour'd, and beheld Beautie, which whether waking or asleep, Shot forth peculiar Graces; then with voice Milde, as when ZEPHYRUS on FLORA breathes, Her hand soft touching, whisperd thus. Awake My fairest, my espous'd, my latest found, Heav'ns last best gift, my ever new delight, Awake, the morning shines, and the fresh field Calls us, we lose the prime, to mark how spring Our tended Plants, how blows the Citron Grove, What drops the Myrrhe, & what the balmie Reed, How Nature paints her colours, how the Bee Sits on the Bloom extracting liquid sweet. Such whispering wak'd her, but with startl'd eye On ADAM, whom imbracing, thus she spake. O Sole in whom my thoughts find all repose, My Glorie, my Perfection, glad I see Thy face, and Morn return'd, for I this Night, Such night till this I never pass'd, have dream'd, If dream'd, not as I oft am wont, of thee, Works of day pass't, or morrows next designe, But of offence and trouble, which my mind Knew never till this irksom night; methought Close at mine ear one call'd me forth to walk With gentle voice, I thought it thine; it said, Why sleepst thou EVE? now is the pleasant time, The cool, the silent, save where silence yields To the night-warbling Bird, that now awake Tunes sweetest his love-labor'd song; now reignes Full Orb'd the Moon, and with more pleasing light Shadowie sets off the face of things; in vain, If none regard; Heav'n wakes with all his eyes, Whom to behold but thee, Natures desire, In whose sight all things joy, with ravishment Attracted by thy beauty still to gaze. I rose as at thy call, but found thee not; To find thee I directed then my walk; And on, methought, alone I pass'd through ways That brought me on a sudden to the Tree Of interdicted Knowledge: fair it seem'd, Much fairer to my Fancie then by day: And as I wondring lookt, beside it stood One shap'd & wing'd like one of those from Heav'n By us oft seen; his dewie locks distill'd Ambrosia; on that Tree he also gaz'd; And O fair Plant, said he, with fruit surcharg'd, Deigns none to ease thy load and taste thy sweet, Nor God, nor Man; is Knowledge so despis'd? Or envie, or what reserve forbids to taste? Forbid who will, none shall from me withhold Longer thy offerd good, why else set here? This said he paus'd not, but with ventrous Arme He pluckt, he tasted; mee damp horror chil'd At such bold words voucht with a deed so bold: But he thus overjoy'd, O Fruit Divine, Sweet of thy self, but much more sweet thus cropt, Forbidd'n here, it seems, as onely fit For Gods, yet able to make Gods of Men: And why not Gods of Men, since good, the more Communicated, more abundant growes, The Author not impair'd, but honourd more? Here, happie Creature, fair Angelic EVE, Partake thou also; happie though thou art, Happier thou mayst be, worthier canst not be: Taste this, and be henceforth among the Gods Thy self a Goddess, not to Earth confind, But somtimes in the Air, as wee, somtimes Ascend to Heav'n, by merit thine, and see What life the Gods live there, and such live thou. So saying, he drew nigh, and to me held, Even to my mouth of that same fruit held part Which he had pluckt; the pleasant savourie smell So quick'nd appetite, that I, methought, Could not but taste. Forthwith up to the Clouds With him I flew, and underneath beheld The Earth outstretcht immense, a prospect wide And various: wondring at my flight and change To this high exaltation; suddenly My Guide was gon, and I, me thought, sunk down, And fell asleep; but O how glad I wak'd To find this but a dream! Thus EVE her Night Related, and thus ADAM answerd sad. Best Image of my self and dearer half, The trouble of thy thoughts this night in sleep Affects me equally; nor can I like This uncouth dream, of evil sprung I fear; Yet evil whence? in thee can harbour none, Created pure. But know that in the Soule Are many lesser Faculties that serve Reason as chief; among these Fansie next Her office holds; of all external things, Which the five watchful Senses represent, She forms Imaginations, Aerie shapes, Which Reason joyning or disjoyning, frames All what we affirm or what deny, and call Our knowledge or opinion; then retires Into her private Cell when Nature rests. Oft in her absence mimic Fansie wakes To imitate her; but misjoyning shapes, Wilde work produces oft, and most in dreams, Ill matching words and deeds long past or late. Som such resemblances methinks I find Of our last Eevnings talk, in this thy dream, But with addition strange; yet be not sad. Evil into the mind of God or Man May come and go, so unapprov'd, and leave No spot or blame behind: Which gives me hope That what in sleep thou didst abhorr to dream, Waking thou never wilt consent to do. Be not disheart'nd then, nor cloud those looks That wont to be more chearful and serene Then when fair Morning first smiles on the World, And let us to our fresh imployments rise Among the Groves, the Fountains, and the Flours That open now thir choicest bosom'd smells Reservd from night, and kept for thee in store. So cheard he his fair Spouse, and she was cheard, But silently a gentle tear let fall From either eye, and wip'd them with her haire; Two other precious drops that ready stood, Each in thir chrystal sluce, hee ere they fell Kiss'd as the gracious signs of sweet remorse And pious awe, that feard to have offended. So all was cleard, and to the Field they haste. But first from under shadie arborous roof, Soon as they forth were come to open sight Of day-spring, and the Sun, who scarce up risen With wheels yet hov'ring o're the Ocean brim, Shot paralel to the earth his dewie ray, Discovering in wide Lantskip all the East Of Paradise and EDENS happie Plains, Lowly they bow'd adoring, and began Thir Orisons, each Morning duly paid In various style, for neither various style Nor holy rapture wanted they to praise Thir Maker, in fit strains pronounc't or sung Unmeditated, such prompt eloquence Flowd from thir lips, in Prose or numerous Verse, More tuneable then needed Lute or Harp To add more sweetness, and they thus began. These are thy glorious works, Parent of good, Almightie, thine this universal Frame, Thus wondrous fair; thy self how wondrous then! Unspeakable, who sitst above these Heavens To us invisible or dimly seen In these thy lowest works, yet these declare Thy goodness beyond thought, and Power Divine: Speak yee who best can tell, ye Sons of light, Angels, for yee behold him, and with songs And choral symphonies, Day without Night, Circle his Throne rejoycing, yee in Heav'n, On Earth joyn all yee Creatures to extoll Him first, him last, him midst, and without end. Fairest of Starrs, last in the train of Night, If better thou belong not to the dawn, Sure pledge of day, that crownst the smiling Morn With thy bright Circlet, praise him in thy Spheare While day arises, that sweet hour of Prime. Thou Sun, of this great World both Eye and Soule, Acknowledge him thy Greater, sound his praise In thy eternal course, both when thou climb'st, And when high Noon hast gaind, & when thou fallst. Moon, that now meetst the orient Sun, now fli'st With the fixt Starrs, fixt in thir Orb that flies, And yee five other wandring Fires that move In mystic Dance not without Song, resound His praise, who out of Darkness call'd up Light. Aire, and ye Elements the eldest birth Of Natures Womb, that in quaternion run Perpetual Circle, multiform; and mix And nourish all things, let your ceasless change Varie to our great Maker still new praise. Ye Mists and Exhalations that now rise From Hill or steaming Lake, duskie or grey, Till the Sun paint your fleecie skirts with Gold, In honour to the Worlds great Author rise, Whether to deck with Clouds the uncolourd skie, Or wet the thirstie Earth with falling showers, Rising or falling still advance his praise. His praise ye Winds, that from four Quarters blow, Breath soft or loud; and wave your tops, ye Pines, With every Plant, in sign of Worship wave. Fountains and yee, that warble, as ye flow, Melodious murmurs, warbling tune his praise. Joyn voices all ye living Souls, ye Birds, That singing up to Heaven Gate ascend, Bear on your wings and in your notes his praise; Yee that in Waters glide, and yee that walk The Earth, and stately tread, or lowly creep; Witness if I be silent, Morn or Eeven, To Hill, or Valley, Fountain, or fresh shade Made vocal by my Song, and taught his praise. Hail universal Lord, be bounteous still To give us onely good; and if the night Have gathered aught of evil or conceald, Disperse it, as now light dispels the dark. So pray'd they innocent, and to thir thoughts Firm peace recoverd soon and wonted calm. On to thir mornings rural work they haste Among sweet dewes and flours; where any row Of Fruit-trees overwoodie reachd too farr Thir pamperd boughes, and needed hands to check Fruitless imbraces: or they led the Vine To wed her Elm; she spous'd about him twines Her mariageable arms, and with her brings Her dowr th' adopted Clusters, to adorn His barren leaves. Them thus imploid beheld With pittie Heav'ns high King, and to him call'd RAPHAEL, the sociable Spirit, that deign'd To travel with TOBIAS, and secur'd His marriage with the seaventimes-wedded Maid. RAPHAEL, said hee, thou hear'st what stir on Earth SATAN from Hell scap't through the darksom Gulf Hath raisd in Paradise, and how disturbd This night the human pair, how he designes In them at once to ruin all mankind. Go therefore, half this day as friend with friend Converse with ADAM, in what Bowre or shade Thou find'st him from the heat of Noon retir'd, To respit his day-labour with repast, Or with repose; and such discourse bring on, As may advise him of his happie state, Happiness in his power left free to will, Left to his own free Will, his Will though free, Yet mutable; whence warne him to beware He swerve not too secure: tell him withall His danger, and from whom, what enemie Late falln himself from Heav'n, is plotting now The fall of others from like state of bliss; By violence, no, for that shall be withstood, But by deceit and lies; this let him know, Least wilfully transgressing he pretend Surprisal, unadmonisht, unforewarnd. So spake th' Eternal Father, and fulfilld All Justice: nor delaid the winged Saint After his charge receivd, but from among Thousand Celestial Ardors, where he stood Vaild with his gorgeous wings, up springing light Flew through the midst of Heav'n; th' angelic Quires On each hand parting, to his speed gave way Through all th' Empyreal road; till at the Gate Of Heav'n arriv'd, the gate self-opend wide On golden Hinges turning, as by work Divine the sov'ran Architect had fram'd. From hence, no cloud, or, to obstruct his sight, Starr interpos'd, however small he sees, Not unconform to other shining Globes, Earth and the Gard'n of God, with Cedars crownd Above all Hills. As when by night the Glass Of GALILEO, less assur'd, observes Imagind Lands and Regions in the Moon: Or Pilot from amidst the CYCLADES DELOS or SAMOS first appeering kenns A cloudy spot. Down thither prone in flight He speeds, and through the vast Ethereal Skie Sailes between worlds & worlds, with steddie wing Now on the polar windes, then with quick Fann Winnows the buxom Air; till within soare Of Towring Eagles, to all the Fowles he seems A PHOENIX, gaz'd by all, as that sole Bird When to enshrine his reliques in the Sun's Bright Temple, to AEGYPTIAN THEB'S he flies. At once on th' Eastern cliff of Paradise He lights, and to his proper shape returns A Seraph wingd; six wings he wore, to shade His lineaments Divine; the pair that clad Each shoulder broad, came mantling o're his brest With regal Ornament; the middle pair Girt like a Starrie Zone his waste, and round Skirted his loines and thighes with downie Gold And colours dipt in Heav'n; the third his feet Shaddowd from either heele with featherd maile Skie-tinctur'd grain. Like MAIA'S son he stood, And shook his Plumes, that Heav'nly fragrance filld The circuit wide. Strait knew him all the bands Of Angels under watch; and to his state, And to his message high in honour rise; For on som message high they guessd him bound. Thir glittering Tents he passd, and now is come Into the blissful field, through Groves of Myrrhe, And flouring Odours, Cassia, Nard, and Balme; A Wilderness of sweets; for Nature here Wantond as in her prime, and plaid at will Her Virgin Fancies, pouring forth more sweet, Wilde above rule or art; enormous bliss. Him through the spicie Forrest onward com ADAM discernd, as in the dore he sat Of his coole Bowre, while now the mounted Sun Shot down direct his fervid Raies, to warme Earths inmost womb, more warmth then ADAM need; And EVE within, due at her hour prepar'd For dinner savourie fruits, of taste to please True appetite, and not disrelish thirst Of nectarous draughts between, from milkie stream, Berrie or Grape: to whom thus ADAM call'd. Haste hither EVE, and worth thy sight behold Eastward among those Trees, what glorious shape Comes this way moving; seems another Morn Ris'n on mid-noon; som great behest from Heav'n To us perhaps he brings, and will voutsafe This day to be our Guest. But goe with speed, And what thy stores contain, bring

fansie

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

walk With Heav'nly touch of instrumental sounds In full harmonic number joind, thir songs Divide the night, and lift our thoughts to Heaven. Thus talking hand in hand alone they pass'd On to thir blissful Bower; it was a place Chos'n by the sovran Planter, when he fram'd All things to mans delightful use; the roofe Of thickest covert was inwoven shade Laurel and Mirtle, and what higher grew Of firm and fragrant leaf; on either side ACANTHUS, and each odorous bushie shrub Fenc'd up the verdant wall; each beauteous flour, IRIS all hues, Roses, and Gessamin Rear'd high thir flourisht heads between, and wrought Mosaic; underfoot the Violet, Crocus, and Hyacinth with rich inlay Broiderd the ground, more colour'd then with stone Of costliest Emblem: other Creature here Beast, Bird, Insect, or Worm durst enter none; Such was thir awe of man. In shadier Bower More sacred and sequesterd, though but feignd, PAN or SILVANUS never slept, nor Nymph, Nor FAUNUS haunted. Here in close recess With Flowers, Garlands, and sweet-smelling Herbs Espoused EVE deckt first her Nuptial Bed, And heav'nly Quires the Hymenaean sung, What day the genial Angel to our Sire Brought her in naked beauty more adorn'd, More lovely then PANDORA, whom the Gods Endowd with all thir gifts, and O too like In sad event, when to the unwiser Son Of JAPHET brought by HERMES, she ensnar'd Mankind with her faire looks, to be aveng'd On him who had stole JOVES authentic fire. Thus at thir shadie Lodge arriv'd, both stood, Both turnd, and under op'n Skie ador'd The God that made both Skie, Air, Earth & Heav'n Which they beheld, the Moons resplendent Globe And starrie Pole: Thou also mad'st the Night, Maker Omnipotent, and thou the Day, Which we in our appointed work imployd Have finisht happie in our mutual help And mutual love, the Crown of all our bliss Ordain'd by thee, and this delicious place For us too large, where thy abundance wants Partakers, and uncropt falls to the ground. But thou hast promis'd from us two a Race To fill the Earth, who shall with us extoll Thy goodness infinite, both when we wake, And when we seek, as now, thy gift of sleep. This said unanimous, and other Rites Observing none, but adoration pure Which God likes best, into thir inmost bower Handed they went; and eas'd the putting off These troublesom disguises which wee wear, Strait side by side were laid, nor turnd I weene ADAM from his fair Spouse, nor EVE the Rites Mysterious of connubial Love refus'd: Whatever Hypocrites austerely talk Of puritie and place and innocence, Defaming as impure what God declares Pure, and commands to som, leaves free to all. Our Maker bids increase, who bids abstain But our Destroyer, foe to God and Man? Haile wedded Love, mysterious Law, true source Of human ofspring, sole proprietie, In Paradise of all things common else. By thee adulterous lust was driv'n from men Among the bestial herds to raunge, by thee Founded in Reason, Loyal, Just, and Pure, Relations dear, and all the Charities Of Father, Son, and Brother first were known. Farr be it, that I should write thee sin or blame, Or think thee unbefitting holiest place, Perpetual Fountain of Domestic sweets, Whose Bed is undefil'd and chast pronounc't, Present, or past, as Saints and Patriarchs us'd. Here Love his golden shafts imploies, here lights His constant Lamp, and waves his purple wings, Reigns here and revels; not in the bought smile Of Harlots, loveless, joyless, unindeard, Casual fruition, nor in Court Amours Mixt Dance, or wanton Mask, or Midnight Bal, Or Serenate, which the starv'd Lover sings To his proud fair, best quitted with disdain. These lulld by Nightingales imbraceing slept, And on thir naked limbs the flourie roof Showrd Roses, which the Morn repair'd. Sleep on, Blest pair; and O yet happiest if ye seek No happier state, and know to know no more. Now had night measur'd with her shaddowie Cone Half way up Hill this vast Sublunar Vault, And from thir Ivorie Port the Cherubim Forth issuing at th' accustomd hour stood armd To thir night watches in warlike Parade, When GABRIEL to his next in power thus spake. UZZIEL, half these draw off, and coast the South With strictest watch; these other wheel the North, Our circuit meets full West. As flame they part Half wheeling to the Shield, half to the Spear. From these, two strong and suttle Spirits he calld That neer him stood, and gave them thus in charge. ITHURIEL and ZEPHON, with wingd speed Search through this Garden, leav unsearcht no nook, But chiefly where those two fair Creatures Lodge, Now laid perhaps asleep secure of harme. This Eevning from the Sun's decline arriv'd Who tells of som infernal Spirit seen Hitherward bent (who could have thought?) escap'd The barrs of Hell, on errand bad no doubt: Such where ye find, seise fast, and hither bring. So saying, on he led his radiant Files, Daz'ling the Moon; these to the Bower direct In search of whom they sought: him there they found Squat like a Toad, close at the eare of EVE; Assaying by his Devilish art to reach The Organs of her Fancie, and with them forge Illusions as he list, Phantasms and Dreams, Or if, inspiring venom, he might taint Th' animal Spirits that from pure blood arise Like gentle breaths from Rivers pure, thence raise At least distemperd, discontented thoughts, Vain hopes, vain aimes, inordinate desires Blown up with high conceits ingendring pride. Him thus intent ITHURIEL with his Spear Touch'd lightly; for no falshood can endure Touch of Celestial temper, but returns Of force to its own likeness: up he starts Discoverd and surpriz'd. As when a spark Lights on a heap of nitrous Powder, laid Fit for the Tun som Magazin to store Against a rumord Warr, the Smuttie graine With sudden blaze diffus'd, inflames the Aire: So started up in his own shape the Fiend. Back stept those two fair Angels half amaz'd So sudden to behold the grieslie King; Yet thus, unmovd with fear, accost him soon. Which of those rebell Spirits adjudg'd to Hell Com'st thou, escap'd thy prison, and transform'd, Why satst thou like an enemie in waite Here watching at the head of these that sleep? Know ye not then said SATAN, filld with scorn, Know ye not me? ye knew me once no mate For you, there sitting where ye durst not soare; Not to know mee argues your selves unknown, The lowest of your throng; or if ye know, Why ask ye, and superfluous begin Your message, like to end as much in vain? To whom thus ZEPHON, answering scorn with scorn. Think not, revolted Spirit, thy shape the same, Or undiminisht brightness, to be known As when thou stoodst in Heav'n upright and pure; That Glorie then, when thou no more wast good, Departed from thee, and thou resembl'st now Thy sin and place of doom obscure and foule. But come, for thou, be sure, shalt give account To him who sent us, whose charge is to keep This place inviolable, and these from harm. So spake the Cherube, and his grave rebuke Severe in youthful beautie, added grace Invincible: abasht the Devil stood, And felt how awful goodness is, and saw Vertue in her shape how lovly, saw, and pin'd His loss; but chiefly to find here observd His lustre visibly impar'd; yet seemd Undaunted. If I must contend, said he, Best with the best, the Sender not the sent, Or all at once; more glorie will be wonn, Or less be lost. Thy fear, said ZEPHON bold, Will save us trial what the least can doe Single against thee wicked, and thence weak. The Fiend repli'd not, overcome with rage; But like a proud Steed reind, went hautie on, Chaumping his iron curb: to strive or flie He held it vain; awe from above had quelld His heart, not else dismai'd. Now drew they nigh The western point, where those half-rounding guards Just met, & closing stood in squadron joind Awaiting next command. To whom thir Chief GABRIEL from the Front thus calld aloud. O friends, I hear the tread of nimble feet Hasting this way, and now by glimps discerne ITHURIEL and ZEPHON through the shade, And with them comes a third of Regal port, But faded splendor wan; who by his gate And fierce demeanour seems the Prince of Hell, Not likely to part hence without contest; Stand firm, for in his look defiance lours. He scarce had ended, when those two approachd And brief related whom they brought, wher found, How busied, in what form and posture coucht. To whom with stern regard thus GABRIEL spake. Why hast thou, SATAN, broke the bounds prescrib'd To thy transgressions, and disturbd the charge Of others, who approve not to transgress By thy example, but have power and right To question thy bold entrance on this place; Imploi'd it seems to violate sleep, and those Whose dwelling God hath planted here in bliss? To whom thus SATAN with contemptuous brow. GABRIEL, thou hadst in Heav'n th' esteem of wise, And such I held thee; but this question askt Puts me in doubt. Lives ther who loves his pain? Who would not, finding way, break loose from Hell, Though thither doomd? Thou wouldst thy self, no doubt, And boldly venture to whatever place Farthest from pain, where thou mightst hope to change Torment with ease, & soonest recompence Dole with delight, which in this place I sought; To thee no reason; who knowst only good, But evil hast not tri'd: and wilt object His will who bound us? let him surer barr His Iron Gates, if he intends our stay In that dark durance: thus much what was askt. The rest is true, they found me where they say; But that implies not violence or harme. Thus hee in scorn. The warlike Angel mov'd, Disdainfully half smiling thus repli'd. O loss of one in Heav'n to judge of wise, Since SATAN fell, whom follie overthrew, And now returns him from his prison scap't, Gravely in doubt whether to hold them wise Or not, who ask what boldness brought him hither Unlicenc't from his bounds in Hell prescrib'd; So wise he judges it to fly from pain However, and to scape his punishment. So judge thou still, presumptuous, till the wrauth, Which thou incurr'st by flying, meet thy flight Seavenfold, and scourge that wisdom back to Hell, Which taught thee yet no better, that no pain Can equal anger infinite provok't. But wherefore thou alone? wherefore with thee Came not all Hell broke loose? is pain to them Less pain, less to be fled, or thou then they Less hardie to endure? courageous Chief, The first in flight from pain, had'st thou alleg'd To thy deserted host this cause of flight, Thou surely hadst not come sole fugitive. To which the Fiend thus answerd frowning stern. Not that I less endure, or shrink from pain, Insulting Angel, well thou knowst I stood Thy fiercest, when in Battel to thy aide The blasting volied Thunder made all speed And seconded thy else not dreaded Spear. But still thy words at random, as before, Argue thy inexperience what behooves From hard assaies and ill successes past A faithful Leader, not to hazard all Through wayes of danger by himself untri'd. I therefore, I alone first undertook To wing the desolate Abyss, and spie This new created World, whereof in Hell Fame is not silent, here in hope to find Better abode, and my afflicted Powers To settle here on Earth, or in mid Aire; Though for possession put to try once more What thou and thy gay Legions dare against; Whose easier business were to serve thir Lord High up in Heav'n, with songs to hymne his Throne, And practis'd distances to cringe, not fight. To whom the warriour Angel soon repli'd. To say and strait unsay, pretending first Wise to flie pain, professing next the Spie, Argues no Leader, but a lyar trac't, SATAN, and couldst thou faithful add? O name, O sacred name of faithfulness profan'd! Faithful to whom? to thy rebellious crew? Armie of Fiends, fit body to fit head; Was this your discipline and faith ingag'd, Your military obedience, to dissolve Allegeance to th' acknowledg'd Power supream? And thou sly hypocrite, who now wouldst seem Patron of liberty, who more then thou Once fawn'd, and cring'd, and servilly ador'd Heav'ns awful Monarch? wherefore but in hope To dispossess him, and thy self to reigne? But mark what I arreede thee now, avant; Flie thither whence thou fledst: if from this houre Within these hallowd limits thou appeer, Back to th' infernal pit I drag thee chaind, And Seale thee so, as henceforth not to scorne The facil gates of hell too slightly barrd. So threatn'd hee, but SATAN to no threats Gave heed, but waxing more in rage repli'd. Then when I am thy captive talk of chaines, Proud limitarie Cherube, but ere then Farr heavier load thy self expect to feel From my prevailing arme, though Heavens King Ride on thy wings, and thou with thy Compeers, Us'd to the yoak, draw'st his triumphant wheels In progress through the rode of Heav'n Star-pav'd. While thus he spake, th' Angelic Squadron bright Turnd fierie red, sharpning in mooned hornes Thir Phalanx, and began to hemm him round With ported Spears, as thick as when a field Of CERES ripe for harvest waving bends Her bearded Grove of ears, which way the wind Swayes them; the careful Plowman doubting stands Least on the threshing floore his hopeful sheaves Prove chaff. On th' other side SATAN allarm'd Collecting all his might dilated stood, Like TENERIFF or ATLAS unremov'd: His stature reacht the Skie, and on his Crest Sat horror Plum'd; nor wanted in his graspe What seemd both Spear and Shield: now dreadful deeds Might have ensu'd, nor onely Paradise In this commotion, but the Starrie Cope Of Heav'n perhaps, or all the Elements At least had gon to rack, disturbd and torne With violence of this conflict, had not soon Th' Eternal to prevent such horrid fray Hung forth in Heav'n his golden Scales, yet seen Betwixt ASTREA and the SCORPION signe, Wherein all things created first he weighd, The pendulous round Earth with ballanc't Aire In counterpoise, now ponders all events, Battels and Realms: in these he put two weights The sequel each of parting and of fight; The latter quick up flew, and kickt the beam; Which GABRIEL spying, thus bespake the Fiend. SATAN, I know thy strength, and thou knowst mine, Neither our own but giv'n; what follie then To boast what Arms can doe, since thine no more Then Heav'n permits, nor mine, though doubld now To trample thee as mire: for proof look up, And read thy Lot in yon celestial Sign Where thou art weigh'd, & shown how light, how weak, If thou resist. The Fiend lookt up and knew His mounted scale aloft: nor more; but fled Murmuring, and with him fled the shades of night. THE END OF THE FOURTH BOOK. PARADISE LOST BOOK V. Now Morn her rosie steps in th' Eastern Clime Advancing, sow'd the Earth with Orient Pearle, When ADAM wak't, so customd, for his sleep Was Aerie light, from pure digestion bred, And temperat vapors bland, which th' only sound Of leaves and fuming rills, AURORA's fan, Lightly dispers'd, and the shrill Matin Song Of Birds on every bough; so much the more His wonder was to find unwak'nd EVE With Tresses discompos'd, and glowing Cheek, As through unquiet rest: he on his side Leaning half-rais'd, with looks of cordial Love Hung over her enamour'd, and beheld Beautie, which whether waking or asleep, Shot forth peculiar Graces; then with voice Milde, as when ZEPHYRUS on FLORA breathes, Her hand soft touching, whisperd thus. Awake My fairest, my espous'd, my latest found, Heav'ns last best gift, my ever new delight, Awake, the morning shines, and the fresh field Calls us, we lose the prime, to mark how spring Our tended Plants, how blows the Citron Grove, What drops the Myrrhe, & what the balmie Reed, How Nature paints her colours, how the Bee Sits on the Bloom extracting liquid sweet. Such whispering wak'd her, but with startl'd eye On ADAM, whom imbracing, thus she spake. O Sole in whom my thoughts find all repose, My Glorie, my Perfection, glad I see Thy face, and Morn return'd, for I this Night, Such night till this I never pass'd, have dream'd, If dream'd, not as I oft am wont, of thee, Works of day pass't, or morrows next designe, But of offence and trouble, which my mind Knew never till this irksom night; methought Close at mine ear one call'd me forth to walk With gentle voice, I thought it thine; it said, Why sleepst thou EVE? now is the pleasant time, The cool, the silent, save where silence yields To the night-warbling Bird, that now awake Tunes sweetest his love-labor'd song; now reignes Full Orb'd the Moon, and with more pleasing light Shadowie sets off the face of things; in vain, If none regard; Heav'n wakes with all his eyes, Whom to behold but thee, Natures desire, In whose sight all things joy, with ravishment Attracted by thy beauty still to gaze. I rose as at thy call, but found thee not; To find thee I directed then my walk; And on, methought, alone I pass'd through ways That brought me on a sudden to the Tree Of interdicted Knowledge: fair it seem'd, Much fairer to my Fancie then by day: And as I wondring lookt, beside it stood One shap'd & wing'd like one of those from Heav'n By us oft seen; his dewie locks distill'd Ambrosia; on that Tree he also gaz'd; And O fair Plant, said he, with fruit surcharg'd, Deigns none to ease thy load and taste thy sweet, Nor God, nor Man; is Knowledge so despis'd? Or envie, or what reserve forbids to taste? Forbid who will, none shall from me withhold Longer thy offerd good, why else set here? This said he paus'd not, but with ventrous Arme He pluckt, he tasted; mee damp horror chil'd At such bold words voucht with a deed so bold: But he thus overjoy'd, O Fruit Divine, Sweet of thy self, but much more sweet thus cropt, Forbidd'n here, it seems, as onely fit For Gods, yet able to make Gods of Men: And why not Gods of Men, since good, the more Communicated, more abundant growes, The Author not impair'd, but honourd more? Here, happie Creature, fair Angelic EVE, Partake thou also; happie though thou art, Happier thou mayst be, worthier canst not be: Taste this, and be henceforth among the Gods Thy self a Goddess, not to Earth confind, But somtimes in the Air, as wee, somtimes Ascend to Heav'n, by merit thine, and see What life the Gods live there, and such live thou. So saying, he drew nigh, and to me held, Even to my mouth of that same fruit held part Which he had pluckt; the pleasant savourie smell So quick'nd appetite, that I, methought, Could not but taste. Forthwith up to the Clouds With him I flew, and underneath beheld The Earth outstretcht immense, a prospect wide And various: wondring at my flight and change To this high exaltation; suddenly My Guide was gon, and I, me thought, sunk down, And fell asleep; but O how glad I wak'd To find this but a dream! Thus EVE her Night Related, and thus ADAM answerd sad. Best Image of my self and dearer half, The trouble of thy thoughts this night in sleep Affects me equally; nor can I like This uncouth dream, of evil sprung I fear; Yet evil whence? in thee can harbour none, Created pure. But know that in the Soule Are many lesser Faculties that serve Reason as chief; among these Fansie next Her office holds; of all external things, Which the five watchful Senses represent, She forms Imaginations, Aerie shapes, Which Reason joyning or disjoyning, frames All what we affirm or what deny, and call Our knowledge or opinion; then retires Into her private Cell when Nature rests. Oft in her absence mimic Fansie wakes To imitate her; but misjoyning shapes, Wilde work produces oft, and most in dreams, Ill matching words and deeds long past or late. Som such resemblances methinks I find Of our last Eevnings talk, in this thy dream, But with addition strange; yet be not sad. Evil into the mind of God or Man May come and go, so unapprov'd, and leave No spot or blame behind: Which gives me hope That what in sleep thou didst abhorr to dream, Waking thou never wilt consent to do. Be not disheart'nd then, nor cloud those looks That wont to be more chearful and serene Then when fair Morning first smiles on the World, And let us to our fresh imployments rise Among the Groves, the Fountains, and the Flours That open now thir choicest bosom'd smells Reservd from night, and kept for thee in store. So cheard he his fair Spouse, and she was cheard, But silently a gentle tear let fall From either eye, and wip'd them with her haire; Two other precious drops that ready stood, Each in thir chrystal sluce, hee ere they fell Kiss'd as the gracious signs of sweet remorse And pious awe, that feard to have offended. So all was cleard, and to the Field they haste. But first from under shadie arborous roof, Soon as they forth were come to open sight Of day-spring, and the Sun, who scarce up risen With wheels yet hov'ring o're the Ocean brim, Shot paralel to the earth his dewie ray, Discovering in wide Lantskip all the East Of Paradise and EDENS happie Plains, Lowly they bow'd adoring, and began Thir Orisons, each Morning duly paid In various style, for neither various style Nor holy rapture wanted they to praise Thir Maker, in fit strains pronounc't or sung Unmeditated, such prompt eloquence Flowd from thir lips, in Prose or numerous Verse, More tuneable then needed Lute or Harp To add more sweetness, and they thus began. These are thy glorious works, Parent of good, Almightie, thine this universal Frame, Thus wondrous fair; thy self how wondrous then! Unspeakable, who sitst above these Heavens To us invisible or dimly seen In these thy lowest works, yet these declare Thy goodness beyond thought, and Power Divine: Speak yee who best can tell, ye Sons of light, Angels, for yee behold him, and with songs And choral symphonies, Day without Night, Circle his Throne rejoycing, yee in Heav'n, On Earth joyn all yee Creatures to extoll Him first, him last, him midst, and without end. Fairest of Starrs, last in the train of Night, If better thou belong not to the dawn, Sure pledge of day, that crownst the smiling Morn With thy bright Circlet, praise him in thy Spheare While day arises, that sweet hour of Prime. Thou Sun, of this great World both Eye and Soule, Acknowledge him thy Greater, sound his praise In thy eternal course, both when thou climb'st, And when high Noon hast gaind, & when thou fallst. Moon, that now meetst the orient Sun, now fli'st With the fixt Starrs, fixt in thir Orb that flies, And yee five other wandring Fires that move In mystic Dance not without Song, resound His praise, who out of Darkness call'd up Light. Aire, and ye Elements the eldest birth Of Natures Womb, that in quaternion run Perpetual Circle, multiform; and mix And nourish all things, let your ceasless change Varie to our great Maker still new praise. Ye Mists and Exhalations that now rise From Hill or steaming Lake, duskie or grey, Till the Sun paint your fleecie skirts with Gold, In honour to the Worlds great Author rise, Whether to deck with Clouds the uncolourd skie, Or wet the thirstie Earth with falling showers, Rising or falling still advance his praise. His praise ye Winds, that from four Quarters blow, Breath soft or loud; and wave your tops, ye Pines, With every Plant, in sign of Worship wave. Fountains and yee, that warble, as ye flow, Melodious murmurs, warbling tune his praise. Joyn voices all ye living Souls, ye Birds, That singing up to Heaven Gate ascend, Bear on your wings and in your notes his praise; Yee that in Waters glide, and yee that walk The Earth, and stately tread, or lowly creep; Witness if I be silent, Morn or Eeven, To Hill, or Valley, Fountain, or fresh shade Made vocal by my Song, and taught his praise. Hail universal Lord, be bounteous still To give us onely good; and if the night Have gathered aught of evil or conceald, Disperse it, as now light dispels the dark. So pray'd they innocent, and to thir thoughts Firm peace recoverd soon and wonted calm. On to thir mornings rural work they haste Among sweet dewes and flours; where any row Of Fruit-trees overwoodie reachd too farr Thir pamperd boughes, and needed hands to check Fruitless imbraces: or they led the Vine To wed her Elm; she spous'd about him twines Her mariageable arms, and with her brings Her dowr th' adopted Clusters, to adorn His barren leaves. Them thus imploid beheld With pittie Heav'ns high King, and to him call'd RAPHAEL, the sociable Spirit, that deign'd To travel with TOBIAS, and secur'd His marriage with the seaventimes-wedded Maid. RAPHAEL, said hee, thou hear'st what stir on Earth SATAN from Hell scap't through the darksom Gulf Hath raisd in Paradise, and how disturbd This night the human pair, how he designes In them at once to ruin all mankind. Go therefore, half this day as friend with friend Converse with ADAM, in what Bowre or shade Thou find'st him from the heat of Noon retir'd, To respit his day-labour with repast, Or with repose; and such discourse bring on, As may advise him of his happie state, Happiness in his power left free to will, Left to his own free Will, his Will though free, Yet mutable; whence warne him to beware He swerve not too secure: tell him withall His danger, and from whom, what enemie Late falln himself from Heav'n, is plotting now The fall of others from like state of bliss; By violence, no, for that shall be withstood, But by deceit and lies; this let him know, Least wilfully transgressing he pretend Surprisal, unadmonisht, unforewarnd. So spake th' Eternal Father, and fulfilld All Justice: nor delaid the winged Saint After his charge receivd, but from among Thousand Celestial Ardors, where he stood Vaild with his gorgeous wings, up springing light Flew through the midst of Heav'n; th' angelic Quires On each hand parting, to his speed gave way Through all th' Empyreal road; till at the Gate Of Heav'n arriv'd, the gate self-opend wide On golden Hinges turning, as by work Divine the sov'ran Architect had fram'd. From hence, no cloud, or, to obstruct his sight, Starr interpos'd, however small he sees, Not unconform to other shining Globes, Earth and the Gard'n of God, with Cedars crownd Above all Hills. As when by night the Glass Of GALILEO, less assur'd, observes Imagind Lands and Regions in the Moon: Or Pilot from amidst the CYCLADES DELOS or SAMOS first appeering kenns A cloudy spot. Down thither prone in flight He speeds, and through the vast Ethereal Skie Sailes between worlds & worlds, with steddie wing Now on the polar windes, then with quick Fann Winnows the buxom Air; till within soare Of Towring Eagles, to all the Fowles he seems A PHOENIX, gaz'd by all, as that sole Bird When to enshrine his reliques in the Sun's Bright Temple, to AEGYPTIAN THEB'S he flies. At once on th' Eastern cliff of Paradise He lights, and to his proper shape returns A Seraph wingd; six wings he wore, to shade His lineaments Divine; the pair that clad Each shoulder broad, came mantling o're his brest With regal Ornament; the middle pair Girt like a Starrie Zone his waste, and round Skirted his loines and thighes with downie Gold And colours dipt in Heav'n; the third his feet Shaddowd from either heele with featherd maile Skie-tinctur'd grain. Like MAIA'S son he stood, And shook his Plumes, that Heav'nly fragrance filld The circuit wide. Strait knew him all the bands Of Angels under watch; and to his state, And to his message high in honour rise; For on som message high they guessd him bound. Thir glittering Tents he passd, and now is come Into the blissful field, through Groves of Myrrhe, And flouring Odours, Cassia, Nard, and Balme; A Wilderness of sweets; for Nature here Wantond as in her prime, and plaid at will Her Virgin Fancies, pouring forth more sweet, Wilde above rule or art; enormous bliss. Him through the spicie Forrest onward com ADAM discernd, as in the dore he sat Of his coole Bowre, while now the mounted Sun Shot down direct his fervid Raies, to warme Earths inmost womb, more warmth then ADAM need; And EVE within, due at her hour prepar'd For dinner savourie fruits, of taste to please True appetite, and not disrelish thirst Of nectarous draughts between, from milkie stream, Berrie or Grape: to whom thus ADAM call'd. Haste hither EVE, and worth thy sight behold Eastward among those Trees, what glorious shape Comes this way moving; seems another Morn Ris'n on mid-noon; som great behest from Heav'n To us perhaps he brings, and will voutsafe This day to be our Guest. But goe with speed, And what thy stores contain, bring

arme

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

walk With Heav'nly touch of instrumental sounds In full harmonic number joind, thir songs Divide the night, and lift our thoughts to Heaven. Thus talking hand in hand alone they pass'd On to thir blissful Bower; it was a place Chos'n by the sovran Planter, when he fram'd All things to mans delightful use; the roofe Of thickest covert was inwoven shade Laurel and Mirtle, and what higher grew Of firm and fragrant leaf; on either side ACANTHUS, and each odorous bushie shrub Fenc'd up the verdant wall; each beauteous flour, IRIS all hues, Roses, and Gessamin Rear'd high thir flourisht heads between, and wrought Mosaic; underfoot the Violet, Crocus, and Hyacinth with rich inlay Broiderd the ground, more colour'd then with stone Of costliest Emblem: other Creature here Beast, Bird, Insect, or Worm durst enter none; Such was thir awe of man. In shadier Bower More sacred and sequesterd, though but feignd, PAN or SILVANUS never slept, nor Nymph, Nor FAUNUS haunted. Here in close recess With Flowers, Garlands, and sweet-smelling Herbs Espoused EVE deckt first her Nuptial Bed, And heav'nly Quires the Hymenaean sung, What day the genial Angel to our Sire Brought her in naked beauty more adorn'd, More lovely then PANDORA, whom the Gods Endowd with all thir gifts, and O too like In sad event, when to the unwiser Son Of JAPHET brought by HERMES, she ensnar'd Mankind with her faire looks, to be aveng'd On him who had stole JOVES authentic fire. Thus at thir shadie Lodge arriv'd, both stood, Both turnd, and under op'n Skie ador'd The God that made both Skie, Air, Earth & Heav'n Which they beheld, the Moons resplendent Globe And starrie Pole: Thou also mad'st the Night, Maker Omnipotent, and thou the Day, Which we in our appointed work imployd Have finisht happie in our mutual help And mutual love, the Crown of all our bliss Ordain'd by thee, and this delicious place For us too large, where thy abundance wants Partakers, and uncropt falls to the ground. But thou hast promis'd from us two a Race To fill the Earth, who shall with us extoll Thy goodness infinite, both when we wake, And when we seek, as now, thy gift of sleep. This said unanimous, and other Rites Observing none, but adoration pure Which God likes best, into thir inmost bower Handed they went; and eas'd the putting off These troublesom disguises which wee wear, Strait side by side were laid, nor turnd I weene ADAM from his fair Spouse, nor EVE the Rites Mysterious of connubial Love refus'd: Whatever Hypocrites austerely talk Of puritie and place and innocence, Defaming as impure what God declares Pure, and commands to som, leaves free to all. Our Maker bids increase, who bids abstain But our Destroyer, foe to God and Man? Haile wedded Love, mysterious Law, true source Of human ofspring, sole proprietie, In Paradise of all things common else. By thee adulterous lust was driv'n from men Among the bestial herds to raunge, by thee Founded in Reason, Loyal, Just, and Pure, Relations dear, and all the Charities Of Father, Son, and Brother first were known. Farr be it, that I should write thee sin or blame, Or think thee unbefitting holiest place, Perpetual Fountain of Domestic sweets, Whose Bed is undefil'd and chast pronounc't, Present, or past, as Saints and Patriarchs us'd. Here Love his golden shafts imploies, here lights His constant Lamp, and waves his purple wings, Reigns here and revels; not in the bought smile Of Harlots, loveless, joyless, unindeard, Casual fruition, nor in Court Amours Mixt Dance, or wanton Mask, or Midnight Bal, Or Serenate, which the starv'd Lover sings To his proud fair, best quitted with disdain. These lulld by Nightingales imbraceing slept, And on thir naked limbs the flourie roof Showrd Roses, which the Morn repair'd. Sleep on, Blest pair; and O yet happiest if ye seek No happier state, and know to know no more. Now had night measur'd with her shaddowie Cone Half way up Hill this vast Sublunar Vault, And from thir Ivorie Port the Cherubim Forth issuing at th' accustomd hour stood armd To thir night watches in warlike Parade, When GABRIEL to his next in power thus spake. UZZIEL, half these draw off, and coast the South With strictest watch; these other wheel the North, Our circuit meets full West. As flame they part Half wheeling to the Shield, half to the Spear. From these, two strong and suttle Spirits he calld That neer him stood, and gave them thus in charge. ITHURIEL and ZEPHON, with wingd speed Search through this Garden, leav unsearcht no nook, But chiefly where those two fair Creatures Lodge, Now laid perhaps asleep secure of harme. This Eevning from the Sun's decline arriv'd Who tells of som infernal Spirit seen Hitherward bent (who could have thought?) escap'd The barrs of Hell, on errand bad no doubt: Such where ye find, seise fast, and hither bring. So saying, on he led his radiant Files, Daz'ling the Moon; these to the Bower direct In search of whom they sought: him there they found Squat like a Toad, close at the eare of EVE; Assaying by his Devilish art to reach The Organs of her Fancie, and with them forge Illusions as he list, Phantasms and Dreams, Or if, inspiring venom, he might taint Th' animal Spirits that from pure blood arise Like gentle breaths from Rivers pure, thence raise At least distemperd, discontented thoughts, Vain hopes, vain aimes, inordinate desires Blown up with high conceits ingendring pride. Him thus intent ITHURIEL with his Spear Touch'd lightly; for no falshood can endure Touch of Celestial temper, but returns Of force to its own likeness: up he starts Discoverd and surpriz'd. As when a spark Lights on a heap of nitrous Powder, laid Fit for the Tun som Magazin to store Against a rumord Warr, the Smuttie graine With sudden blaze diffus'd, inflames the Aire: So started up in his own shape the Fiend. Back stept those two fair Angels half amaz'd So sudden to behold the grieslie King; Yet thus, unmovd with fear, accost him soon. Which of those rebell Spirits adjudg'd to Hell Com'st thou, escap'd thy prison, and transform'd, Why satst thou like an enemie in waite Here watching at the head of these that sleep? Know ye not then said SATAN, filld with scorn, Know ye not me? ye knew me once no mate For you, there sitting where ye durst not soare; Not to know mee argues your selves unknown, The lowest of your throng; or if ye know, Why ask ye, and superfluous begin Your message, like to end as much in vain? To whom thus ZEPHON, answering scorn with scorn. Think not, revolted Spirit, thy shape the same, Or undiminisht brightness, to be known As when thou stoodst in Heav'n upright and pure; That Glorie then, when thou no more wast good, Departed from thee, and thou resembl'st now Thy sin and place of doom obscure and foule. But come, for thou, be sure, shalt give account To him who sent us, whose charge is to keep This place inviolable, and these from harm. So spake the Cherube, and his grave rebuke Severe in youthful beautie, added grace Invincible: abasht the Devil stood, And felt how awful goodness is, and saw Vertue in her shape how lovly, saw, and pin'd His loss; but chiefly to find here observd His lustre visibly impar'd; yet seemd Undaunted. If I must contend, said he, Best with the best, the Sender not the sent, Or all at once; more glorie will be wonn, Or less be lost. Thy fear, said ZEPHON bold, Will save us trial what the least can doe Single against thee wicked, and thence weak. The Fiend repli'd not, overcome with rage; But like a proud Steed reind, went hautie on, Chaumping his iron curb: to strive or flie He held it vain; awe from above had quelld His heart, not else dismai'd. Now drew they nigh The western point, where those half-rounding guards Just met, & closing stood in squadron joind Awaiting next command. To whom thir Chief GABRIEL from the Front thus calld aloud. O friends, I hear the tread of nimble feet Hasting this way, and now by glimps discerne ITHURIEL and ZEPHON through the shade, And with them comes a third of Regal port, But faded splendor wan; who by his gate And fierce demeanour seems the Prince of Hell, Not likely to part hence without contest; Stand firm, for in his look defiance lours. He scarce had ended, when those two approachd And brief related whom they brought, wher found, How busied, in what form and posture coucht. To whom with stern regard thus GABRIEL spake. Why hast thou, SATAN, broke the bounds prescrib'd To thy transgressions, and disturbd the charge Of others, who approve not to transgress By thy example, but have power and right To question thy bold entrance on this place; Imploi'd it seems to violate sleep, and those Whose dwelling God hath planted here in bliss? To whom thus SATAN with contemptuous brow. GABRIEL, thou hadst in Heav'n th' esteem of wise, And such I held thee; but this question askt Puts me in doubt. Lives ther who loves his pain? Who would not, finding way, break loose from Hell, Though thither doomd? Thou wouldst thy self, no doubt, And boldly venture to whatever place Farthest from pain, where thou mightst hope to change Torment with ease, & soonest recompence Dole with delight, which in this place I sought; To thee no reason; who knowst only good, But evil hast not tri'd: and wilt object His will who bound us? let him surer barr His Iron Gates, if he intends our stay In that dark durance: thus much what was askt. The rest is true, they found me where they say; But that implies not violence or harme. Thus hee in scorn. The warlike Angel mov'd, Disdainfully half smiling thus repli'd. O loss of one in Heav'n to judge of wise, Since SATAN fell, whom follie overthrew, And now returns him from his prison scap't, Gravely in doubt whether to hold them wise Or not, who ask what boldness brought him hither Unlicenc't from his bounds in Hell prescrib'd; So wise he judges it to fly from pain However, and to scape his punishment. So judge thou still, presumptuous, till the wrauth, Which thou incurr'st by flying, meet thy flight Seavenfold, and scourge that wisdom back to Hell, Which taught thee yet no better, that no pain Can equal anger infinite provok't. But wherefore thou alone? wherefore with thee Came not all Hell broke loose? is pain to them Less pain, less to be fled, or thou then they Less hardie to endure? courageous Chief, The first in flight from pain, had'st thou alleg'd To thy deserted host this cause of flight, Thou surely hadst not come sole fugitive. To which the Fiend thus answerd frowning stern. Not that I less endure, or shrink from pain, Insulting Angel, well thou knowst I stood Thy fiercest, when in Battel to thy aide The blasting volied Thunder made all speed And seconded thy else not dreaded Spear. But still thy words at random, as before, Argue thy inexperience what behooves From hard assaies and ill successes past A faithful Leader, not to hazard all Through wayes of danger by himself untri'd. I therefore, I alone first undertook To wing the desolate Abyss, and spie This new created World, whereof in Hell Fame is not silent, here in hope to find Better abode, and my afflicted Powers To settle here on Earth, or in mid Aire; Though for possession put to try once more What thou and thy gay Legions dare against; Whose easier business were to serve thir Lord High up in Heav'n, with songs to hymne his Throne, And practis'd distances to cringe, not fight. To whom the warriour Angel soon repli'd. To say and strait unsay, pretending first Wise to flie pain, professing next the Spie, Argues no Leader, but a lyar trac't, SATAN, and couldst thou faithful add? O name, O sacred name of faithfulness profan'd! Faithful to whom? to thy rebellious crew? Armie of Fiends, fit body to fit head; Was this your discipline and faith ingag'd, Your military obedience, to dissolve Allegeance to th' acknowledg'd Power supream? And thou sly hypocrite, who now wouldst seem Patron of liberty, who more then thou Once fawn'd, and cring'd, and servilly ador'd Heav'ns awful Monarch? wherefore but in hope To dispossess him, and thy self to reigne? But mark what I arreede thee now, avant; Flie thither whence thou fledst: if from this houre Within these hallowd limits thou appeer, Back to th' infernal pit I drag thee chaind, And Seale thee so, as henceforth not to scorne The facil gates of hell too slightly barrd. So threatn'd hee, but SATAN to no threats Gave heed, but waxing more in rage repli'd. Then when I am thy captive talk of chaines, Proud limitarie Cherube, but ere then Farr heavier load thy self expect to feel From my prevailing arme, though Heavens King Ride on thy wings, and thou with thy Compeers, Us'd to the yoak, draw'st his triumphant wheels In progress through the rode of Heav'n Star-pav'd. While thus he spake, th' Angelic Squadron bright Turnd fierie red, sharpning in mooned hornes Thir Phalanx, and began to hemm him round With ported Spears, as thick as when a field Of CERES ripe for harvest waving bends Her bearded Grove of ears, which way the wind Swayes them; the careful Plowman doubting stands Least on the threshing floore his hopeful sheaves Prove chaff. On th' other side SATAN allarm'd Collecting all his might dilated stood, Like TENERIFF or ATLAS unremov'd: His stature reacht the Skie, and on his Crest Sat horror Plum'd; nor wanted in his graspe What seemd both Spear and Shield: now dreadful deeds Might have ensu'd, nor onely Paradise In this commotion, but the Starrie Cope Of Heav'n perhaps, or all the Elements At least had gon to rack, disturbd and torne With violence of this conflict, had not soon Th' Eternal to prevent such horrid fray Hung forth in Heav'n his golden Scales, yet seen Betwixt ASTREA and the SCORPION signe, Wherein all things created first he weighd, The pendulous round Earth with ballanc't Aire In counterpoise, now ponders all events, Battels and Realms: in these he put two weights The sequel each of parting and of fight; The latter quick up flew, and kickt the beam; Which GABRIEL spying, thus bespake the Fiend. SATAN, I know thy strength, and thou knowst mine, Neither our own but giv'n; what follie then To boast what Arms can doe, since thine no more Then Heav'n permits, nor mine, though doubld now To trample thee as mire: for proof look up, And read thy Lot in yon celestial Sign Where thou art weigh'd, & shown how light, how weak, If thou resist. The Fiend lookt up and knew His mounted scale aloft: nor more; but fled Murmuring, and with him fled the shades of night. THE END OF THE FOURTH BOOK. PARADISE LOST BOOK V. Now Morn her rosie steps in th' Eastern Clime Advancing, sow'd the Earth with Orient Pearle, When ADAM wak't, so customd, for his sleep Was Aerie light, from pure digestion bred, And temperat vapors bland, which th' only sound Of leaves and fuming rills, AURORA's fan, Lightly dispers'd, and the shrill Matin Song Of Birds on every bough; so much the more His wonder was to find unwak'nd EVE With Tresses discompos'd, and glowing Cheek, As through unquiet rest: he on his side Leaning half-rais'd, with looks of cordial Love Hung over her enamour'd, and beheld Beautie, which whether waking or asleep, Shot forth peculiar Graces; then with voice Milde, as when ZEPHYRUS on FLORA breathes, Her hand soft touching, whisperd thus. Awake My fairest, my espous'd, my latest found, Heav'ns last best gift, my ever new delight, Awake, the morning shines, and the fresh field Calls us, we lose the prime, to mark how spring Our tended Plants, how blows the Citron Grove, What drops the Myrrhe, & what the balmie Reed, How Nature paints her colours, how the Bee Sits on the Bloom extracting liquid sweet. Such whispering wak'd her, but with startl'd eye On ADAM, whom imbracing, thus she spake. O Sole in whom my thoughts find all repose, My Glorie, my Perfection, glad I see Thy face, and Morn return'd, for I this Night, Such night till this I never pass'd, have dream'd, If dream'd, not as I oft am wont, of thee, Works of day pass't, or morrows next designe, But of offence and trouble, which my mind Knew never till this irksom night; methought Close at mine ear one call'd me forth to walk With gentle voice, I thought it thine; it said, Why sleepst thou EVE? now is the pleasant time, The cool, the silent, save where silence yields To the night-warbling Bird, that now awake Tunes sweetest his love-labor'd song; now reignes Full Orb'd the Moon, and with more pleasing light Shadowie sets off the face of things; in vain, If none regard; Heav'n wakes with all his eyes, Whom to behold but thee, Natures desire, In whose sight all things joy, with ravishment Attracted by thy beauty still to gaze. I rose as at thy call, but found thee not; To find thee I directed then my walk; And on, methought, alone I pass'd through ways That brought me on a sudden to the Tree Of interdicted Knowledge: fair it seem'd, Much fairer to my Fancie then by day: And as I wondring lookt, beside it stood One shap'd & wing'd like one of those from Heav'n By us oft seen; his dewie locks distill'd Ambrosia; on that Tree he also gaz'd; And O fair Plant, said he, with fruit surcharg'd, Deigns none to ease thy load and taste thy sweet, Nor God, nor Man; is Knowledge so despis'd? Or envie, or what reserve forbids to taste? Forbid who will, none shall from me withhold Longer thy offerd good, why else set here? This said he paus'd not, but with ventrous Arme He pluckt, he tasted; mee damp horror chil'd At such bold words voucht with a deed so bold: But he thus overjoy'd, O Fruit Divine, Sweet of thy self, but much more sweet thus cropt, Forbidd'n here, it seems, as onely fit For Gods, yet able to make Gods of Men: And why not Gods of Men, since good, the more Communicated, more abundant growes, The Author not impair'd, but honourd more? Here, happie Creature, fair Angelic EVE, Partake thou also; happie though thou art, Happier thou mayst be, worthier canst not be: Taste this, and be henceforth among the Gods Thy self a Goddess, not to Earth confind, But somtimes in the Air, as wee, somtimes Ascend to Heav'n, by merit thine, and see What life the Gods live there, and such live thou. So saying, he drew nigh, and to me held, Even to my mouth of that same fruit held part Which he had pluckt; the pleasant savourie smell So quick'nd appetite, that I, methought, Could not but taste. Forthwith up to the Clouds With him I flew, and underneath beheld The Earth outstretcht immense, a prospect wide And various: wondring at my flight and change To this high exaltation; suddenly My Guide was gon, and I, me thought, sunk down, And fell asleep; but O how glad I wak'd To find this but a dream! Thus EVE her Night Related, and thus ADAM answerd sad. Best Image of my self and dearer half, The trouble of thy thoughts this night in sleep Affects me equally; nor can I like This uncouth dream, of evil sprung I fear; Yet evil whence? in thee can harbour none, Created pure. But know that in the Soule Are many lesser Faculties that serve Reason as chief; among these Fansie next Her office holds; of all external things, Which the five watchful Senses represent, She forms Imaginations, Aerie shapes, Which Reason joyning or disjoyning, frames All what we affirm or what deny, and call Our knowledge or opinion; then retires Into her private Cell when Nature rests. Oft in her absence mimic Fansie wakes To imitate her; but misjoyning shapes, Wilde work produces oft, and most in dreams, Ill matching words and deeds long past or late. Som such resemblances methinks I find Of our last Eevnings talk, in this thy dream, But with addition strange; yet be not sad. Evil into the mind of God or Man May come and go, so unapprov'd, and leave No spot or blame behind: Which gives me hope That what in sleep thou didst abhorr to dream, Waking thou never wilt consent to do. Be not disheart'nd then, nor cloud those looks That wont to be more chearful and serene Then when fair Morning first smiles on the World, And let us to our fresh imployments rise Among the Groves, the Fountains, and the Flours That open now thir choicest bosom'd smells Reservd from night, and kept for thee in store. So cheard he his fair Spouse, and she was cheard, But silently a gentle tear let fall From either eye, and wip'd them with her haire; Two other precious drops that ready stood, Each in thir chrystal sluce, hee ere they fell Kiss'd as the gracious signs of sweet remorse And pious awe, that feard to have offended. So all was cleard, and to the Field they haste. But first from under shadie arborous roof, Soon as they forth were come to open sight Of day-spring, and the Sun, who scarce up risen With wheels yet hov'ring o're the Ocean brim, Shot paralel to the earth his dewie ray, Discovering in wide Lantskip all the East Of Paradise and EDENS happie Plains, Lowly they bow'd adoring, and began Thir Orisons, each Morning duly paid In various style, for neither various style Nor holy rapture wanted they to praise Thir Maker, in fit strains pronounc't or sung Unmeditated, such prompt eloquence Flowd from thir lips, in Prose or numerous Verse, More tuneable then needed Lute or Harp To add more sweetness, and they thus began. These are thy glorious works, Parent of good, Almightie, thine this universal Frame, Thus wondrous fair; thy self how wondrous then! Unspeakable, who sitst above these Heavens To us invisible or dimly seen In these thy lowest works, yet these declare Thy goodness beyond thought, and Power Divine: Speak yee who best can tell, ye Sons of light, Angels, for yee behold him, and with songs And choral symphonies, Day without Night, Circle his Throne rejoycing, yee in Heav'n, On Earth joyn all yee Creatures to extoll Him first, him last, him midst, and without end. Fairest of Starrs, last in the train of Night, If better thou belong not to the dawn, Sure pledge of day, that crownst the smiling Morn With thy bright Circlet, praise him in thy Spheare While day arises, that sweet hour of Prime. Thou Sun, of this great World both Eye and Soule, Acknowledge him thy Greater, sound his praise In thy eternal course, both when thou climb'st, And when high Noon hast gaind, & when thou fallst. Moon, that now meetst the orient Sun, now fli'st With the fixt Starrs, fixt in thir Orb that flies, And yee five other wandring Fires that move In mystic Dance not without Song, resound His praise, who out of Darkness call'd up Light. Aire, and ye Elements the eldest birth Of Natures Womb, that in quaternion run Perpetual Circle, multiform; and mix And nourish all things, let your ceasless change Varie to our great Maker still new praise. Ye Mists and Exhalations that now rise From Hill or steaming Lake, duskie or grey, Till the Sun paint your fleecie skirts with Gold, In honour to the Worlds great Author rise, Whether to deck with Clouds the uncolourd skie, Or wet the thirstie Earth with falling showers, Rising or falling still advance his praise. His praise ye Winds, that from four Quarters blow, Breath soft or loud; and wave your tops, ye Pines, With every Plant, in sign of Worship wave. Fountains and yee, that warble, as ye flow, Melodious murmurs, warbling tune his praise. Joyn voices all ye living Souls, ye Birds, That singing up to Heaven Gate ascend, Bear on your wings and in your notes his praise; Yee that in Waters glide, and yee that walk The Earth, and stately tread, or lowly creep; Witness if I be silent, Morn or Eeven, To Hill, or Valley, Fountain, or fresh shade Made vocal by my Song, and taught his praise. Hail universal Lord, be bounteous still To give us onely good; and if the night Have gathered aught of evil or conceald, Disperse it, as now light dispels the dark. So pray'd they innocent, and to thir thoughts Firm peace recoverd soon and wonted calm. On to thir mornings rural work they haste Among sweet dewes and flours; where any row Of Fruit-trees overwoodie reachd too farr Thir pamperd boughes, and needed hands to check Fruitless imbraces: or they led the Vine To wed her Elm; she spous'd about him twines Her mariageable arms, and with her brings Her dowr th' adopted Clusters, to adorn His barren leaves. Them thus imploid beheld With pittie Heav'ns high King, and to him call'd RAPHAEL, the sociable Spirit, that deign'd To travel with TOBIAS, and secur'd His marriage with the seaventimes-wedded Maid. RAPHAEL, said hee, thou hear'st what stir on Earth SATAN from Hell scap't through the darksom Gulf Hath raisd in Paradise, and how disturbd This night the human pair, how he designes In them at once to ruin all mankind. Go therefore, half this day as friend with friend Converse with ADAM, in what Bowre or shade Thou find'st him from the heat of Noon retir'd, To respit his day-labour with repast, Or with repose; and such discourse bring on, As may advise him of his happie state, Happiness in his power left free to will, Left to his own free Will, his Will though free, Yet mutable; whence warne him to beware He swerve not too secure: tell him withall His danger, and from whom, what enemie Late falln himself from Heav'n, is plotting now The fall of others from like state of bliss; By violence, no, for that shall be withstood, But by deceit and lies; this let him know, Least wilfully transgressing he pretend Surprisal, unadmonisht, unforewarnd. So spake th' Eternal Father, and fulfilld All Justice: nor delaid the winged Saint After his charge receivd, but from among Thousand Celestial Ardors, where he stood Vaild with his gorgeous wings, up springing light Flew through the midst of Heav'n; th' angelic Quires On each hand parting, to his speed gave way Through all th' Empyreal road; till at the Gate Of Heav'n arriv'd, the gate self-opend wide On golden Hinges turning, as by work Divine the sov'ran Architect had fram'd. From hence, no cloud, or, to obstruct his sight, Starr interpos'd, however small he sees, Not unconform to other shining Globes, Earth and the Gard'n of God, with Cedars crownd Above all Hills. As when by night the Glass Of GALILEO, less assur'd, observes Imagind Lands and Regions in the Moon: Or Pilot from amidst the CYCLADES DELOS or SAMOS first appeering kenns A cloudy spot. Down thither prone in flight He speeds, and through the vast Ethereal Skie Sailes between worlds & worlds, with steddie wing Now on the polar windes, then with quick Fann Winnows the buxom Air; till within soare Of Towring Eagles, to all the Fowles he seems A PHOENIX, gaz'd by all, as that sole Bird When to enshrine his reliques in the Sun's Bright Temple, to AEGYPTIAN THEB'S he flies. At once on th' Eastern cliff of Paradise He lights, and to his proper shape returns A Seraph wingd; six wings he wore, to shade His lineaments Divine; the pair that clad Each shoulder broad, came mantling o're his brest With regal Ornament; the middle pair Girt like a Starrie Zone his waste, and round Skirted his loines and thighes with downie Gold And colours dipt in Heav'n; the third his feet Shaddowd from either heele with featherd maile Skie-tinctur'd grain. Like MAIA'S son he stood, And shook his Plumes, that Heav'nly fragrance filld The circuit wide. Strait knew him all the bands Of Angels under watch; and to his state, And to his message high in honour rise; For on som message high they guessd him bound. Thir glittering Tents he passd, and now is come Into the blissful field, through Groves of Myrrhe, And flouring Odours, Cassia, Nard, and Balme; A Wilderness of sweets; for Nature here Wantond as in her prime, and plaid at will Her Virgin Fancies, pouring forth more sweet, Wilde above rule or art; enormous bliss. Him through the spicie Forrest onward com ADAM discernd, as in the dore he sat Of his coole Bowre, while now the mounted Sun Shot down direct his fervid Raies, to warme Earths inmost womb, more warmth then ADAM need; And EVE within, due at her hour prepar'd For dinner savourie fruits, of taste to please True appetite, and not disrelish thirst Of nectarous draughts between, from milkie stream, Berrie or Grape: to whom thus ADAM call'd. Haste hither EVE, and worth thy sight behold Eastward among those Trees, what glorious shape Comes this way moving; seems another Morn Ris'n on mid-noon; som great behest from Heav'n To us perhaps he brings, and will voutsafe This day to be our Guest. But goe with speed, And what thy stores contain, bring

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walk With Heav'nly touch of instrumental sounds In full harmonic number joind, thir songs Divide the night, and lift our thoughts to Heaven. Thus talking hand in hand alone they pass'd On to thir blissful Bower; it was a place Chos'n by the sovran Planter, when he fram'd All things to mans delightful use; the roofe Of thickest covert was inwoven shade Laurel and Mirtle, and what higher grew Of firm and fragrant leaf; on either side ACANTHUS, and each odorous bushie shrub Fenc'd up the verdant wall; each beauteous flour, IRIS all hues, Roses, and Gessamin Rear'd high thir flourisht heads between, and wrought Mosaic; underfoot the Violet, Crocus, and Hyacinth with rich inlay Broiderd the ground, more colour'd then with stone Of costliest Emblem: other Creature here Beast, Bird, Insect, or Worm durst enter none; Such was thir awe of man. In shadier Bower More sacred and sequesterd, though but feignd, PAN or SILVANUS never slept, nor Nymph, Nor FAUNUS haunted. Here in close recess With Flowers, Garlands, and sweet-smelling Herbs Espoused EVE deckt first her Nuptial Bed, And heav'nly Quires the Hymenaean sung, What day the genial Angel to our Sire Brought her in naked beauty more adorn'd, More lovely then PANDORA, whom the Gods Endowd with all thir gifts, and O too like In sad event, when to the unwiser Son Of JAPHET brought by HERMES, she ensnar'd Mankind with her faire looks, to be aveng'd On him who had stole JOVES authentic fire. Thus at thir shadie Lodge arriv'd, both stood, Both turnd, and under op'n Skie ador'd The God that made both Skie, Air, Earth & Heav'n Which they beheld, the Moons resplendent Globe And starrie Pole: Thou also mad'st the Night, Maker Omnipotent, and thou the Day, Which we in our appointed work imployd Have finisht happie in our mutual help And mutual love, the Crown of all our bliss Ordain'd by thee, and this delicious place For us too large, where thy abundance wants Partakers, and uncropt falls to the ground. But thou hast promis'd from us two a Race To fill the Earth, who shall with us extoll Thy goodness infinite, both when we wake, And when we seek, as now, thy gift of sleep. This said unanimous, and other Rites Observing none, but adoration pure Which God likes best, into thir inmost bower Handed they went; and eas'd the putting off These troublesom disguises which wee wear, Strait side by side were laid, nor turnd I weene ADAM from his fair Spouse, nor EVE the Rites Mysterious of connubial Love refus'd: Whatever Hypocrites austerely talk Of puritie and place and innocence, Defaming as impure what God declares Pure, and commands to som, leaves free to all. Our Maker bids increase, who bids abstain But our Destroyer, foe to God and Man? Haile wedded Love, mysterious Law, true source Of human ofspring, sole proprietie, In Paradise of all things common else. By thee adulterous lust was driv'n from men Among the bestial herds to raunge, by thee Founded in Reason, Loyal, Just, and Pure, Relations dear, and all the Charities Of Father, Son, and Brother first were known. Farr be it, that I should write thee sin or blame, Or think thee unbefitting holiest place, Perpetual Fountain of Domestic sweets, Whose Bed is undefil'd and chast pronounc't, Present, or past, as Saints and Patriarchs us'd. Here Love his golden shafts imploies, here lights His constant Lamp, and waves his purple wings, Reigns here and revels; not in the bought smile Of Harlots, loveless, joyless, unindeard, Casual fruition, nor in Court Amours Mixt Dance, or wanton Mask, or Midnight Bal, Or Serenate, which the starv'd Lover sings To his proud fair, best quitted with disdain. These lulld by Nightingales imbraceing slept, And on thir naked limbs the flourie roof Showrd Roses, which the Morn repair'd. Sleep on, Blest pair; and O yet happiest if ye seek No happier state, and know to know no more. Now had night measur'd with her shaddowie Cone Half way up Hill this vast Sublunar Vault, And from thir Ivorie Port the Cherubim Forth issuing at th' accustomd hour stood armd To thir night watches in warlike Parade, When GABRIEL to his next in power thus spake. UZZIEL, half these draw off, and coast the South With strictest watch; these other wheel the North, Our circuit meets full West. As flame they part Half wheeling to the Shield, half to the Spear. From these, two strong and suttle Spirits he calld That neer him stood, and gave them thus in charge. ITHURIEL and ZEPHON, with wingd speed Search through this Garden, leav unsearcht no nook, But chiefly where those two fair Creatures Lodge, Now laid perhaps asleep secure of harme. This Eevning from the Sun's decline arriv'd Who tells of som infernal Spirit seen Hitherward bent (who could have thought?) escap'd The barrs of Hell, on errand bad no doubt: Such where ye find, seise fast, and hither bring. So saying, on he led his radiant Files, Daz'ling the Moon; these to the Bower direct In search of whom they sought: him there they found Squat like a Toad, close at the eare of EVE; Assaying by his Devilish art to reach The Organs of her Fancie, and with them forge Illusions as he list, Phantasms and Dreams, Or if, inspiring venom, he might taint Th' animal Spirits that from pure blood arise Like gentle breaths from Rivers pure, thence raise At least distemperd, discontented thoughts, Vain hopes, vain aimes, inordinate desires Blown up with high conceits ingendring pride. Him thus intent ITHURIEL with his Spear Touch'd lightly; for no falshood can endure Touch of Celestial temper, but returns Of force to its own likeness: up he starts Discoverd and surpriz'd. As when a spark Lights on a heap of nitrous Powder, laid Fit for the Tun som Magazin to store Against a rumord Warr, the Smuttie graine With sudden blaze diffus'd, inflames the Aire: So started up in his own shape the Fiend. Back stept those two fair Angels half amaz'd So sudden to behold the grieslie King; Yet thus, unmovd with fear, accost him soon. Which of those rebell Spirits adjudg'd to Hell Com'st thou, escap'd thy prison, and transform'd, Why satst thou like an enemie in waite Here watching at the head of these that sleep? Know ye not then said SATAN, filld with scorn, Know ye not me? ye knew me once no mate For you, there sitting where ye durst not soare; Not to know mee argues your selves unknown, The lowest of your throng; or if ye know, Why ask ye, and superfluous begin Your message, like to end as much in vain? To whom thus ZEPHON, answering scorn with scorn. Think not, revolted Spirit, thy shape the same, Or undiminisht brightness, to be known As when thou stoodst in Heav'n upright and pure; That Glorie then, when thou no more wast good, Departed from thee, and thou resembl'st now Thy sin and place of doom obscure and foule. But come, for thou, be sure, shalt give account To him who sent us, whose charge is to keep This place inviolable, and these from harm. So spake the Cherube, and his grave rebuke Severe in youthful beautie, added grace Invincible: abasht the Devil stood, And felt how awful goodness is, and saw Vertue in her shape how lovly, saw, and pin'd His loss; but chiefly to find here observd His lustre visibly impar'd; yet seemd Undaunted. If I must contend, said he, Best with the best, the Sender not the sent, Or all at once; more glorie will be wonn, Or less be lost. Thy fear, said ZEPHON bold, Will save us trial what the least can doe Single against thee wicked, and thence weak. The Fiend repli'd not, overcome with rage; But like a proud Steed reind, went hautie on, Chaumping his iron curb: to strive or flie He held it vain; awe from above had quelld His heart, not else dismai'd. Now drew they nigh The western point, where those half-rounding guards Just met, & closing stood in squadron joind Awaiting next command. To whom thir Chief GABRIEL from the Front thus calld aloud. O friends, I hear the tread of nimble feet Hasting this way, and now by glimps discerne ITHURIEL and ZEPHON through the shade, And with them comes a third of Regal port, But faded splendor wan; who by his gate And fierce demeanour seems the Prince of Hell, Not likely to part hence without contest; Stand firm, for in his look defiance lours. He scarce had ended, when those two approachd And brief related whom they brought, wher found, How busied, in what form and posture coucht. To whom with stern regard thus GABRIEL spake. Why hast thou, SATAN, broke the bounds prescrib'd To thy transgressions, and disturbd the charge Of others, who approve not to transgress By thy example, but have power and right To question thy bold entrance on this place; Imploi'd it seems to violate sleep, and those Whose dwelling God hath planted here in bliss? To whom thus SATAN with contemptuous brow. GABRIEL, thou hadst in Heav'n th' esteem of wise, And such I held thee; but this question askt Puts me in doubt. Lives ther who loves his pain? Who would not, finding way, break loose from Hell, Though thither doomd? Thou wouldst thy self, no doubt, And boldly venture to whatever place Farthest from pain, where thou mightst hope to change Torment with ease, & soonest recompence Dole with delight, which in this place I sought; To thee no reason; who knowst only good, But evil hast not tri'd: and wilt object His will who bound us? let him surer barr His Iron Gates, if he intends our stay In that dark durance: thus much what was askt. The rest is true, they found me where they say; But that implies not violence or harme. Thus hee in scorn. The warlike Angel mov'd, Disdainfully half smiling thus repli'd. O loss of one in Heav'n to judge of wise, Since SATAN fell, whom follie overthrew, And now returns him from his prison scap't, Gravely in doubt whether to hold them wise Or not, who ask what boldness brought him hither Unlicenc't from his bounds in Hell prescrib'd; So wise he judges it to fly from pain However, and to scape his punishment. So judge thou still, presumptuous, till the wrauth, Which thou incurr'st by flying, meet thy flight Seavenfold, and scourge that wisdom back to Hell, Which taught thee yet no better, that no pain Can equal anger infinite provok't. But wherefore thou alone? wherefore with thee Came not all Hell broke loose? is pain to them Less pain, less to be fled, or thou then they Less hardie to endure? courageous Chief, The first in flight from pain, had'st thou alleg'd To thy deserted host this cause of flight, Thou surely hadst not come sole fugitive. To which the Fiend thus answerd frowning stern. Not that I less endure, or shrink from pain, Insulting Angel, well thou knowst I stood Thy fiercest, when in Battel to thy aide The blasting volied Thunder made all speed And seconded thy else not dreaded Spear. But still thy words at random, as before, Argue thy inexperience what behooves From hard assaies and ill successes past A faithful Leader, not to hazard all Through wayes of danger by himself untri'd. I therefore, I alone first undertook To wing the desolate Abyss, and spie This new created World, whereof in Hell Fame is not silent, here in hope to find Better abode, and my afflicted Powers To settle here on Earth, or in mid Aire; Though for possession put to try once more What thou and thy gay Legions dare against; Whose easier business were to serve thir Lord High up in Heav'n, with songs to hymne his Throne, And practis'd distances to cringe, not fight. To whom the warriour Angel soon repli'd. To say and strait unsay, pretending first Wise to flie pain, professing next the Spie, Argues no Leader, but a lyar trac't, SATAN, and couldst thou faithful add? O name, O sacred name of faithfulness profan'd! Faithful to whom? to thy rebellious crew? Armie of Fiends, fit body to fit head; Was this your discipline and faith ingag'd, Your military obedience, to dissolve Allegeance to th' acknowledg'd Power supream? And thou sly hypocrite, who now wouldst seem Patron of liberty, who more then thou Once fawn'd, and cring'd, and servilly ador'd Heav'ns awful Monarch? wherefore but in hope To dispossess him, and thy self to reigne? But mark what I arreede thee now, avant; Flie thither whence thou fledst: if from this houre Within these hallowd limits thou appeer, Back to th' infernal pit I drag thee chaind, And Seale thee so, as henceforth not to scorne The facil gates of hell too slightly barrd. So threatn'd hee, but SATAN to no threats Gave heed, but waxing more in rage repli'd. Then when I am thy captive talk of chaines, Proud limitarie Cherube, but ere then Farr heavier load thy self expect to feel From my prevailing arme, though Heavens King Ride on thy wings, and thou with thy Compeers, Us'd to the yoak, draw'st his triumphant wheels In progress through the rode of Heav'n Star-pav'd. While thus he spake, th' Angelic Squadron bright Turnd fierie red, sharpning in mooned hornes Thir Phalanx, and began to hemm him round With ported Spears, as thick as when a field Of CERES ripe for harvest waving bends Her bearded Grove of ears, which way the wind Swayes them; the careful Plowman doubting stands Least on the threshing floore his hopeful sheaves Prove chaff. On th' other side SATAN allarm'd Collecting all his might dilated stood, Like TENERIFF or ATLAS unremov'd: His stature reacht the Skie, and on his Crest Sat horror Plum'd; nor wanted in his graspe What seemd both Spear and Shield: now dreadful deeds Might have ensu'd, nor onely Paradise In this commotion, but the Starrie Cope Of Heav'n perhaps, or all the Elements At least had gon to rack, disturbd and torne With violence of this conflict, had not soon Th' Eternal to prevent such horrid fray Hung forth in Heav'n his golden Scales, yet seen Betwixt ASTREA and the SCORPION signe, Wherein all things created first he weighd, The pendulous round Earth with ballanc't Aire In counterpoise, now ponders all events, Battels and Realms: in these he put two weights The sequel each of parting and of fight; The latter quick up flew, and kickt the beam; Which GABRIEL spying, thus bespake the Fiend. SATAN, I know thy strength, and thou knowst mine, Neither our own but giv'n; what follie then To boast what Arms can doe, since thine no more Then Heav'n permits, nor mine, though doubld now To trample thee as mire: for proof look up, And read thy Lot in yon celestial Sign Where thou art weigh'd, & shown how light, how weak, If thou resist. The Fiend lookt up and knew His mounted scale aloft: nor more; but fled Murmuring, and with him fled the shades of night. THE END OF THE FOURTH BOOK. PARADISE LOST BOOK V. Now Morn her rosie steps in th' Eastern Clime Advancing, sow'd the Earth with Orient Pearle, When ADAM wak't, so customd, for his sleep Was Aerie light, from pure digestion bred, And temperat vapors bland, which th' only sound Of leaves and fuming rills, AURORA's fan, Lightly dispers'd, and the shrill Matin Song Of Birds on every bough; so much the more His wonder was to find unwak'nd EVE With Tresses discompos'd, and glowing Cheek, As through unquiet rest: he on his side Leaning half-rais'd, with looks of cordial Love Hung over her enamour'd, and beheld Beautie, which whether waking or asleep, Shot forth peculiar Graces; then with voice Milde, as when ZEPHYRUS on FLORA breathes, Her hand soft touching, whisperd thus. Awake My fairest, my espous'd, my latest found, Heav'ns last best gift, my ever new delight, Awake, the morning shines, and the fresh field Calls us, we lose the prime, to mark how spring Our tended Plants, how blows the Citron Grove, What drops the Myrrhe, & what the balmie Reed, How Nature paints her colours, how the Bee Sits on the Bloom extracting liquid sweet. Such whispering wak'd her, but with startl'd eye On ADAM, whom imbracing, thus she spake. O Sole in whom my thoughts find all repose, My Glorie, my Perfection, glad I see Thy face, and Morn return'd, for I this Night, Such night till this I never pass'd, have dream'd, If dream'd, not as I oft am wont, of thee, Works of day pass't, or morrows next designe, But of offence and trouble, which my mind Knew never till this irksom night; methought Close at mine ear one call'd me forth to walk With gentle voice, I thought it thine; it said, Why sleepst thou EVE? now is the pleasant time, The cool, the silent, save where silence yields To the night-warbling Bird, that now awake Tunes sweetest his love-labor'd song; now reignes Full Orb'd the Moon, and with more pleasing light Shadowie sets off the face of things; in vain, If none regard; Heav'n wakes with all his eyes, Whom to behold but thee, Natures desire, In whose sight all things joy, with ravishment Attracted by thy beauty still to gaze. I rose as at thy call, but found thee not; To find thee I directed then my walk; And on, methought, alone I pass'd through ways That brought me on a sudden to the Tree Of interdicted Knowledge: fair it seem'd, Much fairer to my Fancie then by day: And as I wondring lookt, beside it stood One shap'd & wing'd like one of those from Heav'n By us oft seen; his dewie locks distill'd Ambrosia; on that Tree he also gaz'd; And O fair Plant, said he, with fruit surcharg'd, Deigns none to ease thy load and taste thy sweet, Nor God, nor Man; is Knowledge so despis'd? Or envie, or what reserve forbids to taste? Forbid who will, none shall from me withhold Longer thy offerd good, why else set here? This said he paus'd not, but with ventrous Arme He pluckt, he tasted; mee damp horror chil'd At such bold words voucht with a deed so bold: But he thus overjoy'd, O Fruit Divine, Sweet of thy self, but much more sweet thus cropt, Forbidd'n here, it seems, as onely fit For Gods, yet able to make Gods of Men: And why not Gods of Men, since good, the more Communicated, more abundant growes, The Author not impair'd, but honourd more? Here, happie Creature, fair Angelic EVE, Partake thou also; happie though thou art, Happier thou mayst be, worthier canst not be: Taste this, and be henceforth among the Gods Thy self a Goddess, not to Earth confind, But somtimes in the Air, as wee, somtimes Ascend to Heav'n, by merit thine, and see What life the Gods live there, and such live thou. So saying, he drew nigh, and to me held, Even to my mouth of that same fruit held part Which he had pluckt; the pleasant savourie smell So quick'nd appetite, that I, methought, Could not but taste. Forthwith up to the Clouds With him I flew, and underneath beheld The Earth outstretcht immense, a prospect wide And various: wondring at my flight and change To this high exaltation; suddenly My Guide was gon, and I, me thought, sunk down, And fell asleep; but O how glad I wak'd To find this but a dream! Thus EVE her Night Related, and thus ADAM answerd sad. Best Image of my self and dearer half, The trouble of thy thoughts this night in sleep Affects me equally; nor can I like This uncouth dream, of evil sprung I fear; Yet evil whence? in thee can harbour none, Created pure. But know that in the Soule Are many lesser Faculties that serve Reason as chief; among these Fansie next Her office holds; of all external things, Which the five watchful Senses represent, She forms Imaginations, Aerie shapes, Which Reason joyning or disjoyning, frames All what we affirm or what deny, and call Our knowledge or opinion; then retires Into her private Cell when Nature rests. Oft in her absence mimic Fansie wakes To imitate her; but misjoyning shapes, Wilde work produces oft, and most in dreams, Ill matching words and deeds long past or late. Som such resemblances methinks I find Of our last Eevnings talk, in this thy dream, But with addition strange; yet be not sad. Evil into the mind of God or Man May come and go, so unapprov'd, and leave No spot or blame behind: Which gives me hope That what in sleep thou didst abhorr to dream, Waking thou never wilt consent to do. Be not disheart'nd then, nor cloud those looks That wont to be more chearful and serene Then when fair Morning first smiles on the World, And let us to our fresh imployments rise Among the Groves, the Fountains, and the Flours That open now thir choicest bosom'd smells Reservd from night, and kept for thee in store. So cheard he his fair Spouse, and she was cheard, But silently a gentle tear let fall From either eye, and wip'd them with her haire; Two other precious drops that ready stood, Each in thir chrystal sluce, hee ere they fell Kiss'd as the gracious signs of sweet remorse And pious awe, that feard to have offended. So all was cleard, and to the Field they haste. But first from under shadie arborous roof, Soon as they forth were come to open sight Of day-spring, and the Sun, who scarce up risen With wheels yet hov'ring o're the Ocean brim, Shot paralel to the earth his dewie ray, Discovering in wide Lantskip all the East Of Paradise and EDENS happie Plains, Lowly they bow'd adoring, and began Thir Orisons, each Morning duly paid In various style, for neither various style Nor holy rapture wanted they to praise Thir Maker, in fit strains pronounc't or sung Unmeditated, such prompt eloquence Flowd from thir lips, in Prose or numerous Verse, More tuneable then needed Lute or Harp To add more sweetness, and they thus began. These are thy glorious works, Parent of good, Almightie, thine this universal Frame, Thus wondrous fair; thy self how wondrous then! Unspeakable, who sitst above these Heavens To us invisible or dimly seen In these thy lowest works, yet these declare Thy goodness beyond thought, and Power Divine: Speak yee who best can tell, ye Sons of light, Angels, for yee behold him, and with songs And choral symphonies, Day without Night, Circle his Throne rejoycing, yee in Heav'n, On Earth joyn all yee Creatures to extoll Him first, him last, him midst, and without end. Fairest of Starrs, last in the train of Night, If better thou belong not to the dawn, Sure pledge of day, that crownst the smiling Morn With thy bright Circlet, praise him in thy Spheare While day arises, that sweet hour of Prime. Thou Sun, of this great World both Eye and Soule, Acknowledge him thy Greater, sound his praise In thy eternal course, both when thou climb'st, And when high Noon hast gaind, & when thou fallst. Moon, that now meetst the orient Sun, now fli'st With the fixt Starrs, fixt in thir Orb that flies, And yee five other wandring Fires that move In mystic Dance not without Song, resound His praise, who out of Darkness call'd up Light. Aire, and ye Elements the eldest birth Of Natures Womb, that in quaternion run Perpetual Circle, multiform; and mix And nourish all things, let your ceasless change Varie to our great Maker still new praise. Ye Mists and Exhalations that now rise From Hill or steaming Lake, duskie or grey, Till the Sun paint your fleecie skirts with Gold, In honour to the Worlds great Author rise, Whether to deck with Clouds the uncolourd skie, Or wet the thirstie Earth with falling showers, Rising or falling still advance his praise. His praise ye Winds, that from four Quarters blow, Breath soft or loud; and wave your tops, ye Pines, With every Plant, in sign of Worship wave. Fountains and yee, that warble, as ye flow, Melodious murmurs, warbling tune his praise. Joyn voices all ye living Souls, ye Birds, That singing up to Heaven Gate ascend, Bear on your wings and in your notes his praise; Yee that in Waters glide, and yee that walk The Earth, and stately tread, or lowly creep; Witness if I be silent, Morn or Eeven, To Hill, or Valley, Fountain, or fresh shade Made vocal by my Song, and taught his praise. Hail universal Lord, be bounteous still To give us onely good; and if the night Have gathered aught of evil or conceald, Disperse it, as now light dispels the dark. So pray'd they innocent, and to thir thoughts Firm peace recoverd soon and wonted calm. On to thir mornings rural work they haste Among sweet dewes and flours; where any row Of Fruit-trees overwoodie reachd too farr Thir pamperd boughes, and needed hands to check Fruitless imbraces: or they led the Vine To wed her Elm; she spous'd about him twines Her mariageable arms, and with her brings Her dowr th' adopted Clusters, to adorn His barren leaves. Them thus imploid beheld With pittie Heav'ns high King, and to him call'd RAPHAEL, the sociable Spirit, that deign'd To travel with TOBIAS, and secur'd His marriage with the seaventimes-wedded Maid. RAPHAEL, said hee, thou hear'st what stir on Earth SATAN from Hell scap't through the darksom Gulf Hath raisd in Paradise, and how disturbd This night the human pair, how he designes In them at once to ruin all mankind. Go therefore, half this day as friend with friend Converse with ADAM, in what Bowre or shade Thou find'st him from the heat of Noon retir'd, To respit his day-labour with repast, Or with repose; and such discourse bring on, As may advise him of his happie state, Happiness in his power left free to will, Left to his own free Will, his Will though free, Yet mutable; whence warne him to beware He swerve not too secure: tell him withall His danger, and from whom, what enemie Late falln himself from Heav'n, is plotting now The fall of others from like state of bliss; By violence, no, for that shall be withstood, But by deceit and lies; this let him know, Least wilfully transgressing he pretend Surprisal, unadmonisht, unforewarnd. So spake th' Eternal Father, and fulfilld All Justice: nor delaid the winged Saint After his charge receivd, but from among Thousand Celestial Ardors, where he stood Vaild with his gorgeous wings, up springing light Flew through the midst of Heav'n; th' angelic Quires On each hand parting, to his speed gave way Through all th' Empyreal road; till at the Gate Of Heav'n arriv'd, the gate self-opend wide On golden Hinges turning, as by work Divine the sov'ran Architect had fram'd. From hence, no cloud, or, to obstruct his sight, Starr interpos'd, however small he sees, Not unconform to other shining Globes, Earth and the Gard'n of God, with Cedars crownd Above all Hills. As when by night the Glass Of GALILEO, less assur'd, observes Imagind Lands and Regions in the Moon: Or Pilot from amidst the CYCLADES DELOS or SAMOS first appeering kenns A cloudy spot. Down thither prone in flight He speeds, and through the vast Ethereal Skie Sailes between worlds & worlds, with steddie wing Now on the polar windes, then with quick Fann Winnows the buxom Air; till within soare Of Towring Eagles, to all the Fowles he seems A PHOENIX, gaz'd by all, as that sole Bird When to enshrine his reliques in the Sun's Bright Temple, to AEGYPTIAN THEB'S he flies. At once on th' Eastern cliff of Paradise He lights, and to his proper shape returns A Seraph wingd; six wings he wore, to shade His lineaments Divine; the pair that clad Each shoulder broad, came mantling o're his brest With regal Ornament; the middle pair Girt like a Starrie Zone his waste, and round Skirted his loines and thighes with downie Gold And colours dipt in Heav'n; the third his feet Shaddowd from either heele with featherd maile Skie-tinctur'd grain. Like MAIA'S son he stood, And shook his Plumes, that Heav'nly fragrance filld The circuit wide. Strait knew him all the bands Of Angels under watch; and to his state, And to his message high in honour rise; For on som message high they guessd him bound. Thir glittering Tents he passd, and now is come Into the blissful field, through Groves of Myrrhe, And flouring Odours, Cassia, Nard, and Balme; A Wilderness of sweets; for Nature here Wantond as in her prime, and plaid at will Her Virgin Fancies, pouring forth more sweet, Wilde above rule or art; enormous bliss. Him through the spicie Forrest onward com ADAM discernd, as in the dore he sat Of his coole Bowre, while now the mounted Sun Shot down direct his fervid Raies, to warme Earths inmost womb, more warmth then ADAM need; And EVE within, due at her hour prepar'd For dinner savourie fruits, of taste to please True appetite, and not disrelish thirst Of nectarous draughts between, from milkie stream, Berrie or Grape: to whom thus ADAM call'd. Haste hither EVE, and worth thy sight behold Eastward among those Trees, what glorious shape Comes this way moving; seems another Morn Ris'n on mid-noon; som great behest from Heav'n To us perhaps he brings, and will voutsafe This day to be our Guest. But goe with speed, And what thy stores contain, bring

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walk With Heav'nly touch of instrumental sounds In full harmonic number joind, thir songs Divide the night, and lift our thoughts to Heaven. Thus talking hand in hand alone they pass'd On to thir blissful Bower; it was a place Chos'n by the sovran Planter, when he fram'd All things to mans delightful use; the roofe Of thickest covert was inwoven shade Laurel and Mirtle, and what higher grew Of firm and fragrant leaf; on either side ACANTHUS, and each odorous bushie shrub Fenc'd up the verdant wall; each beauteous flour, IRIS all hues, Roses, and Gessamin Rear'd high thir flourisht heads between, and wrought Mosaic; underfoot the Violet, Crocus, and Hyacinth with rich inlay Broiderd the ground, more colour'd then with stone Of costliest Emblem: other Creature here Beast, Bird, Insect, or Worm durst enter none; Such was thir awe of man. In shadier Bower More sacred and sequesterd, though but feignd, PAN or SILVANUS never slept, nor Nymph, Nor FAUNUS haunted. Here in close recess With Flowers, Garlands, and sweet-smelling Herbs Espoused EVE deckt first her Nuptial Bed, And heav'nly Quires the Hymenaean sung, What day the genial Angel to our Sire Brought her in naked beauty more adorn'd, More lovely then PANDORA, whom the Gods Endowd with all thir gifts, and O too like In sad event, when to the unwiser Son Of JAPHET brought by HERMES, she ensnar'd Mankind with her faire looks, to be aveng'd On him who had stole JOVES authentic fire. Thus at thir shadie Lodge arriv'd, both stood, Both turnd, and under op'n Skie ador'd The God that made both Skie, Air, Earth & Heav'n Which they beheld, the Moons resplendent Globe And starrie Pole: Thou also mad'st the Night, Maker Omnipotent, and thou the Day, Which we in our appointed work imployd Have finisht happie in our mutual help And mutual love, the Crown of all our bliss Ordain'd by thee, and this delicious place For us too large, where thy abundance wants Partakers, and uncropt falls to the ground. But thou hast promis'd from us two a Race To fill the Earth, who shall with us extoll Thy goodness infinite, both when we wake, And when we seek, as now, thy gift of sleep. This said unanimous, and other Rites Observing none, but adoration pure Which God likes best, into thir inmost bower Handed they went; and eas'd the putting off These troublesom disguises which wee wear, Strait side by side were laid, nor turnd I weene ADAM from his fair Spouse, nor EVE the Rites Mysterious of connubial Love refus'd: Whatever Hypocrites austerely talk Of puritie and place and innocence, Defaming as impure what God declares Pure, and commands to som, leaves free to all. Our Maker bids increase, who bids abstain But our Destroyer, foe to God and Man? Haile wedded Love, mysterious Law, true source Of human ofspring, sole proprietie, In Paradise of all things common else. By thee adulterous lust was driv'n from men Among the bestial herds to raunge, by thee Founded in Reason, Loyal, Just, and Pure, Relations dear, and all the Charities Of Father, Son, and Brother first were known. Farr be it, that I should write thee sin or blame, Or think thee unbefitting holiest place, Perpetual Fountain of Domestic sweets, Whose Bed is undefil'd and chast pronounc't, Present, or past, as Saints and Patriarchs us'd. Here Love his golden shafts imploies, here lights His constant Lamp, and waves his purple wings, Reigns here and revels; not in the bought smile Of Harlots, loveless, joyless, unindeard, Casual fruition, nor in Court Amours Mixt Dance, or wanton Mask, or Midnight Bal, Or Serenate, which the starv'd Lover sings To his proud fair, best quitted with disdain. These lulld by Nightingales imbraceing slept, And on thir naked limbs the flourie roof Showrd Roses, which the Morn repair'd. Sleep on, Blest pair; and O yet happiest if ye seek No happier state, and know to know no more. Now had night measur'd with her shaddowie Cone Half way up Hill this vast Sublunar Vault, And from thir Ivorie Port the Cherubim Forth issuing at th' accustomd hour stood armd To thir night watches in warlike Parade, When GABRIEL to his next in power thus spake. UZZIEL, half these draw off, and coast the South With strictest watch; these other wheel the North, Our circuit meets full West. As flame they part Half wheeling to the Shield, half to the Spear. From these, two strong and suttle Spirits he calld That neer him stood, and gave them thus in charge. ITHURIEL and ZEPHON, with wingd speed Search through this Garden, leav unsearcht no nook, But chiefly where those two fair Creatures Lodge, Now laid perhaps asleep secure of harme. This Eevning from the Sun's decline arriv'd Who tells of som infernal Spirit seen Hitherward bent (who could have thought?) escap'd The barrs of Hell, on errand bad no doubt: Such where ye find, seise fast, and hither bring. So saying, on he led his radiant Files, Daz'ling the Moon; these to the Bower direct In search of whom they sought: him there they found Squat like a Toad, close at the eare of EVE; Assaying by his Devilish art to reach The Organs of her Fancie, and with them forge Illusions as he list, Phantasms and Dreams, Or if, inspiring venom, he might taint Th' animal Spirits that from pure blood arise Like gentle breaths from Rivers pure, thence raise At least distemperd, discontented thoughts, Vain hopes, vain aimes, inordinate desires Blown up with high conceits ingendring pride. Him thus intent ITHURIEL with his Spear Touch'd lightly; for no falshood can endure Touch of Celestial temper, but returns Of force to its own likeness: up he starts Discoverd and surpriz'd. As when a spark Lights on a heap of nitrous Powder, laid Fit for the Tun som Magazin to store Against a rumord Warr, the Smuttie graine With sudden blaze diffus'd, inflames the Aire: So started up in his own shape the Fiend. Back stept those two fair Angels half amaz'd So sudden to behold the grieslie King; Yet thus, unmovd with fear, accost him soon. Which of those rebell Spirits adjudg'd to Hell Com'st thou, escap'd thy prison, and transform'd, Why satst thou like an enemie in waite Here watching at the head of these that sleep? Know ye not then said SATAN, filld with scorn, Know ye not me? ye knew me once no mate For you, there sitting where ye durst not soare; Not to know mee argues your selves unknown, The lowest of your throng; or if ye know, Why ask ye, and superfluous begin Your message, like to end as much in vain? To whom thus ZEPHON, answering scorn with scorn. Think not, revolted Spirit, thy shape the same, Or undiminisht brightness, to be known As when thou stoodst in Heav'n upright and pure; That Glorie then, when thou no more wast good, Departed from thee, and thou resembl'st now Thy sin and place of doom obscure and foule. But come, for thou, be sure, shalt give account To him who sent us, whose charge is to keep This place inviolable, and these from harm. So spake the Cherube, and his grave rebuke Severe in youthful beautie, added grace Invincible: abasht the Devil stood, And felt how awful goodness is, and saw Vertue in her shape how lovly, saw, and pin'd His loss; but chiefly to find here observd His lustre visibly impar'd; yet seemd Undaunted. If I must contend, said he, Best with the best, the Sender not the sent, Or all at once; more glorie will be wonn, Or less be lost. Thy fear, said ZEPHON bold, Will save us trial what the least can doe Single against thee wicked, and thence weak. The Fiend repli'd not, overcome with rage; But like a proud Steed reind, went hautie on, Chaumping his iron curb: to strive or flie He held it vain; awe from above had quelld His heart, not else dismai'd. Now drew they nigh The western point, where those half-rounding guards Just met, & closing stood in squadron joind Awaiting next command. To whom thir Chief GABRIEL from the Front thus calld aloud. O friends, I hear the tread of nimble feet Hasting this way, and now by glimps discerne ITHURIEL and ZEPHON through the shade, And with them comes a third of Regal port, But faded splendor wan; who by his gate And fierce demeanour seems the Prince of Hell, Not likely to part hence without contest; Stand firm, for in his look defiance lours. He scarce had ended, when those two approachd And brief related whom they brought, wher found, How busied, in what form and posture coucht. To whom with stern regard thus GABRIEL spake. Why hast thou, SATAN, broke the bounds prescrib'd To thy transgressions, and disturbd the charge Of others, who approve not to transgress By thy example, but have power and right To question thy bold entrance on this place; Imploi'd it seems to violate sleep, and those Whose dwelling God hath planted here in bliss? To whom thus SATAN with contemptuous brow. GABRIEL, thou hadst in Heav'n th' esteem of wise, And such I held thee; but this question askt Puts me in doubt. Lives ther who loves his pain? Who would not, finding way, break loose from Hell, Though thither doomd? Thou wouldst thy self, no doubt, And boldly venture to whatever place Farthest from pain, where thou mightst hope to change Torment with ease, & soonest recompence Dole with delight, which in this place I sought; To thee no reason; who knowst only good, But evil hast not tri'd: and wilt object His will who bound us? let him surer barr His Iron Gates, if he intends our stay In that dark durance: thus much what was askt. The rest is true, they found me where they say; But that implies not violence or harme. Thus hee in scorn. The warlike Angel mov'd, Disdainfully half smiling thus repli'd. O loss of one in Heav'n to judge of wise, Since SATAN fell, whom follie overthrew, And now returns him from his prison scap't, Gravely in doubt whether to hold them wise Or not, who ask what boldness brought him hither Unlicenc't from his bounds in Hell prescrib'd; So wise he judges it to fly from pain However, and to scape his punishment. So judge thou still, presumptuous, till the wrauth, Which thou incurr'st by flying, meet thy flight Seavenfold, and scourge that wisdom back to Hell, Which taught thee yet no better, that no pain Can equal anger infinite provok't. But wherefore thou alone? wherefore with thee Came not all Hell broke loose? is pain to them Less pain, less to be fled, or thou then they Less hardie to endure? courageous Chief, The first in flight from pain, had'st thou alleg'd To thy deserted host this cause of flight, Thou surely hadst not come sole fugitive. To which the Fiend thus answerd frowning stern. Not that I less endure, or shrink from pain, Insulting Angel, well thou knowst I stood Thy fiercest, when in Battel to thy aide The blasting volied Thunder made all speed And seconded thy else not dreaded Spear. But still thy words at random, as before, Argue thy inexperience what behooves From hard assaies and ill successes past A faithful Leader, not to hazard all Through wayes of danger by himself untri'd. I therefore, I alone first undertook To wing the desolate Abyss, and spie This new created World, whereof in Hell Fame is not silent, here in hope to find Better abode, and my afflicted Powers To settle here on Earth, or in mid Aire; Though for possession put to try once more What thou and thy gay Legions dare against; Whose easier business were to serve thir Lord High up in Heav'n, with songs to hymne his Throne, And practis'd distances to cringe, not fight. To whom the warriour Angel soon repli'd. To say and strait unsay, pretending first Wise to flie pain, professing next the Spie, Argues no Leader, but a lyar trac't, SATAN, and couldst thou faithful add? O name, O sacred name of faithfulness profan'd! Faithful to whom? to thy rebellious crew? Armie of Fiends, fit body to fit head; Was this your discipline and faith ingag'd, Your military obedience, to dissolve Allegeance to th' acknowledg'd Power supream? And thou sly hypocrite, who now wouldst seem Patron of liberty, who more then thou Once fawn'd, and cring'd, and servilly ador'd Heav'ns awful Monarch? wherefore but in hope To dispossess him, and thy self to reigne? But mark what I arreede thee now, avant; Flie thither whence thou fledst: if from this houre Within these hallowd limits thou appeer, Back to th' infernal pit I drag thee chaind, And Seale thee so, as henceforth not to scorne The facil gates of hell too slightly barrd. So threatn'd hee, but SATAN to no threats Gave heed, but waxing more in rage repli'd. Then when I am thy captive talk of chaines, Proud limitarie Cherube, but ere then Farr heavier load thy self expect to feel From my prevailing arme, though Heavens King Ride on thy wings, and thou with thy Compeers, Us'd to the yoak, draw'st his triumphant wheels In progress through the rode of Heav'n Star-pav'd. While thus he spake, th' Angelic Squadron bright Turnd fierie red, sharpning in mooned hornes Thir Phalanx, and began to hemm him round With ported Spears, as thick as when a field Of CERES ripe for harvest waving bends Her bearded Grove of ears, which way the wind Swayes them; the careful Plowman doubting stands Least on the threshing floore his hopeful sheaves Prove chaff. On th' other side SATAN allarm'd Collecting all his might dilated stood, Like TENERIFF or ATLAS unremov'd: His stature reacht the Skie, and on his Crest Sat horror Plum'd; nor wanted in his graspe What seemd both Spear and Shield: now dreadful deeds Might have ensu'd, nor onely Paradise In this commotion, but the Starrie Cope Of Heav'n perhaps, or all the Elements At least had gon to rack, disturbd and torne With violence of this conflict, had not soon Th' Eternal to prevent such horrid fray Hung forth in Heav'n his golden Scales, yet seen Betwixt ASTREA and the SCORPION signe, Wherein all things created first he weighd, The pendulous round Earth with ballanc't Aire In counterpoise, now ponders all events, Battels and Realms: in these he put two weights The sequel each of parting and of fight; The latter quick up flew, and kickt the beam; Which GABRIEL spying, thus bespake the Fiend. SATAN, I know thy strength, and thou knowst mine, Neither our own but giv'n; what follie then To boast what Arms can doe, since thine no more Then Heav'n permits, nor mine, though doubld now To trample thee as mire: for proof look up, And read thy Lot in yon celestial Sign Where thou art weigh'd, & shown how light, how weak, If thou resist. The Fiend lookt up and knew His mounted scale aloft: nor more; but fled Murmuring, and with him fled the shades of night. THE END OF THE FOURTH BOOK. PARADISE LOST BOOK V. Now Morn her rosie steps in th' Eastern Clime Advancing, sow'd the Earth with Orient Pearle, When ADAM wak't, so customd, for his sleep Was Aerie light, from pure digestion bred, And temperat vapors bland, which th' only sound Of leaves and fuming rills, AURORA's fan, Lightly dispers'd, and the shrill Matin Song Of Birds on every bough; so much the more His wonder was to find unwak'nd EVE With Tresses discompos'd, and glowing Cheek, As through unquiet rest: he on his side Leaning half-rais'd, with looks of cordial Love Hung over her enamour'd, and beheld Beautie, which whether waking or asleep, Shot forth peculiar Graces; then with voice Milde, as when ZEPHYRUS on FLORA breathes, Her hand soft touching, whisperd thus. Awake My fairest, my espous'd, my latest found, Heav'ns last best gift, my ever new delight, Awake, the morning shines, and the fresh field Calls us, we lose the prime, to mark how spring Our tended Plants, how blows the Citron Grove, What drops the Myrrhe, & what the balmie Reed, How Nature paints her colours, how the Bee Sits on the Bloom extracting liquid sweet. Such whispering wak'd her, but with startl'd eye On ADAM, whom imbracing, thus she spake. O Sole in whom my thoughts find all repose, My Glorie, my Perfection, glad I see Thy face, and Morn return'd, for I this Night, Such night till this I never pass'd, have dream'd, If dream'd, not as I oft am wont, of thee, Works of day pass't, or morrows next designe, But of offence and trouble, which my mind Knew never till this irksom night; methought Close at mine ear one call'd me forth to walk With gentle voice, I thought it thine; it said, Why sleepst thou EVE? now is the pleasant time, The cool, the silent, save where silence yields To the night-warbling Bird, that now awake Tunes sweetest his love-labor'd song; now reignes Full Orb'd the Moon, and with more pleasing light Shadowie sets off the face of things; in vain, If none regard; Heav'n wakes with all his eyes, Whom to behold but thee, Natures desire, In whose sight all things joy, with ravishment Attracted by thy beauty still to gaze. I rose as at thy call, but found thee not; To find thee I directed then my walk; And on, methought, alone I pass'd through ways That brought me on a sudden to the Tree Of interdicted Knowledge: fair it seem'd, Much fairer to my Fancie then by day: And as I wondring lookt, beside it stood One shap'd & wing'd like one of those from Heav'n By us oft seen; his dewie locks distill'd Ambrosia; on that Tree he also gaz'd; And O fair Plant, said he, with fruit surcharg'd, Deigns none to ease thy load and taste thy sweet, Nor God, nor Man; is Knowledge so despis'd? Or envie, or what reserve forbids to taste? Forbid who will, none shall from me withhold Longer thy offerd good, why else set here? This said he paus'd not, but with ventrous Arme He pluckt, he tasted; mee damp horror chil'd At such bold words voucht with a deed so bold: But he thus overjoy'd, O Fruit Divine, Sweet of thy self, but much more sweet thus cropt, Forbidd'n here, it seems, as onely fit For Gods, yet able to make Gods of Men: And why not Gods of Men, since good, the more Communicated, more abundant growes, The Author not impair'd, but honourd more? Here, happie Creature, fair Angelic EVE, Partake thou also; happie though thou art, Happier thou mayst be, worthier canst not be: Taste this, and be henceforth among the Gods Thy self a Goddess, not to Earth confind, But somtimes in the Air, as wee, somtimes Ascend to Heav'n, by merit thine, and see What life the Gods live there, and such live thou. So saying, he drew nigh, and to me held, Even to my mouth of that same fruit held part Which he had pluckt; the pleasant savourie smell So quick'nd appetite, that I, methought, Could not but taste. Forthwith up to the Clouds With him I flew, and underneath beheld The Earth outstretcht immense, a prospect wide And various: wondring at my flight and change To this high exaltation; suddenly My Guide was gon, and I, me thought, sunk down, And fell asleep; but O how glad I wak'd To find this but a dream! Thus EVE her Night Related, and thus ADAM answerd sad. Best Image of my self and dearer half, The trouble of thy thoughts this night in sleep Affects me equally; nor can I like This uncouth dream, of evil sprung I fear; Yet evil whence? in thee can harbour none, Created pure. But know that in the Soule Are many lesser Faculties that serve Reason as chief; among these Fansie next Her office holds; of all external things, Which the five watchful Senses represent, She forms Imaginations, Aerie shapes, Which Reason joyning or disjoyning, frames All what we affirm or what deny, and call Our knowledge or opinion; then retires Into her private Cell when Nature rests. Oft in her absence mimic Fansie wakes To imitate her; but misjoyning shapes, Wilde work produces oft, and most in dreams, Ill matching words and deeds long past or late. Som such resemblances methinks I find Of our last Eevnings talk, in this thy dream, But with addition strange; yet be not sad. Evil into the mind of God or Man May come and go, so unapprov'd, and leave No spot or blame behind: Which gives me hope That what in sleep thou didst abhorr to dream, Waking thou never wilt consent to do. Be not disheart'nd then, nor cloud those looks That wont to be more chearful and serene Then when fair Morning first smiles on the World, And let us to our fresh imployments rise Among the Groves, the Fountains, and the Flours That open now thir choicest bosom'd smells Reservd from night, and kept for thee in store. So cheard he his fair Spouse, and she was cheard, But silently a gentle tear let fall From either eye, and wip'd them with her haire; Two other precious drops that ready stood, Each in thir chrystal sluce, hee ere they fell Kiss'd as the gracious signs of sweet remorse And pious awe, that feard to have offended. So all was cleard, and to the Field they haste. But first from under shadie arborous roof, Soon as they forth were come to open sight Of day-spring, and the Sun, who scarce up risen With wheels yet hov'ring o're the Ocean brim, Shot paralel to the earth his dewie ray, Discovering in wide Lantskip all the East Of Paradise and EDENS happie Plains, Lowly they bow'd adoring, and began Thir Orisons, each Morning duly paid In various style, for neither various style Nor holy rapture wanted they to praise Thir Maker, in fit strains pronounc't or sung Unmeditated, such prompt eloquence Flowd from thir lips, in Prose or numerous Verse, More tuneable then needed Lute or Harp To add more sweetness, and they thus began. These are thy glorious works, Parent of good, Almightie, thine this universal Frame, Thus wondrous fair; thy self how wondrous then! Unspeakable, who sitst above these Heavens To us invisible or dimly seen In these thy lowest works, yet these declare Thy goodness beyond thought, and Power Divine: Speak yee who best can tell, ye Sons of light, Angels, for yee behold him, and with songs And choral symphonies, Day without Night, Circle his Throne rejoycing, yee in Heav'n, On Earth joyn all yee Creatures to extoll Him first, him last, him midst, and without end. Fairest of Starrs, last in the train of Night, If better thou belong not to the dawn, Sure pledge of day, that crownst the smiling Morn With thy bright Circlet, praise him in thy Spheare While day arises, that sweet hour of Prime. Thou Sun, of this great World both Eye and Soule, Acknowledge him thy Greater, sound his praise In thy eternal course, both when thou climb'st, And when high Noon hast gaind, & when thou fallst. Moon, that now meetst the orient Sun, now fli'st With the fixt Starrs, fixt in thir Orb that flies, And yee five other wandring Fires that move In mystic Dance not without Song, resound His praise, who out of Darkness call'd up Light. Aire, and ye Elements the eldest birth Of Natures Womb, that in quaternion run Perpetual Circle, multiform; and mix And nourish all things, let your ceasless change Varie to our great Maker still new praise. Ye Mists and Exhalations that now rise From Hill or steaming Lake, duskie or grey, Till the Sun paint your fleecie skirts with Gold, In honour to the Worlds great Author rise, Whether to deck with Clouds the uncolourd skie, Or wet the thirstie Earth with falling showers, Rising or falling still advance his praise. His praise ye Winds, that from four Quarters blow, Breath soft or loud; and wave your tops, ye Pines, With every Plant, in sign of Worship wave. Fountains and yee, that warble, as ye flow, Melodious murmurs, warbling tune his praise. Joyn voices all ye living Souls, ye Birds, That singing up to Heaven Gate ascend, Bear on your wings and in your notes his praise; Yee that in Waters glide, and yee that walk The Earth, and stately tread, or lowly creep; Witness if I be silent, Morn or Eeven, To Hill, or Valley, Fountain, or fresh shade Made vocal by my Song, and taught his praise. Hail universal Lord, be bounteous still To give us onely good; and if the night Have gathered aught of evil or conceald, Disperse it, as now light dispels the dark. So pray'd they innocent, and to thir thoughts Firm peace recoverd soon and wonted calm. On to thir mornings rural work they haste Among sweet dewes and flours; where any row Of Fruit-trees overwoodie reachd too farr Thir pamperd boughes, and needed hands to check Fruitless imbraces: or they led the Vine To wed her Elm; she spous'd about him twines Her mariageable arms, and with her brings Her dowr th' adopted Clusters, to adorn His barren leaves. Them thus imploid beheld With pittie Heav'ns high King, and to him call'd RAPHAEL, the sociable Spirit, that deign'd To travel with TOBIAS, and secur'd His marriage with the seaventimes-wedded Maid. RAPHAEL, said hee, thou hear'st what stir on Earth SATAN from Hell scap't through the darksom Gulf Hath raisd in Paradise, and how disturbd This night the human pair, how he designes In them at once to ruin all mankind. Go therefore, half this day as friend with friend Converse with ADAM, in what Bowre or shade Thou find'st him from the heat of Noon retir'd, To respit his day-labour with repast, Or with repose; and such discourse bring on, As may advise him of his happie state, Happiness in his power left free to will, Left to his own free Will, his Will though free, Yet mutable; whence warne him to beware He swerve not too secure: tell him withall His danger, and from whom, what enemie Late falln himself from Heav'n, is plotting now The fall of others from like state of bliss; By violence, no, for that shall be withstood, But by deceit and lies; this let him know, Least wilfully transgressing he pretend Surprisal, unadmonisht, unforewarnd. So spake th' Eternal Father, and fulfilld All Justice: nor delaid the winged Saint After his charge receivd, but from among Thousand Celestial Ardors, where he stood Vaild with his gorgeous wings, up springing light Flew through the midst of Heav'n; th' angelic Quires On each hand parting, to his speed gave way Through all th' Empyreal road; till at the Gate Of Heav'n arriv'd, the gate self-opend wide On golden Hinges turning, as by work Divine the sov'ran Architect had fram'd. From hence, no cloud, or, to obstruct his sight, Starr interpos'd, however small he sees, Not unconform to other shining Globes, Earth and the Gard'n of God, with Cedars crownd Above all Hills. As when by night the Glass Of GALILEO, less assur'd, observes Imagind Lands and Regions in the Moon: Or Pilot from amidst the CYCLADES DELOS or SAMOS first appeering kenns A cloudy spot. Down thither prone in flight He speeds, and through the vast Ethereal Skie Sailes between worlds & worlds, with steddie wing Now on the polar windes, then with quick Fann Winnows the buxom Air; till within soare Of Towring Eagles, to all the Fowles he seems A PHOENIX, gaz'd by all, as that sole Bird When to enshrine his reliques in the Sun's Bright Temple, to AEGYPTIAN THEB'S he flies. At once on th' Eastern cliff of Paradise He lights, and to his proper shape returns A Seraph wingd; six wings he wore, to shade His lineaments Divine; the pair that clad Each shoulder broad, came mantling o're his brest With regal Ornament; the middle pair Girt like a Starrie Zone his waste, and round Skirted his loines and thighes with downie Gold And colours dipt in Heav'n; the third his feet Shaddowd from either heele with featherd maile Skie-tinctur'd grain. Like MAIA'S son he stood, And shook his Plumes, that Heav'nly fragrance filld The circuit wide. Strait knew him all the bands Of Angels under watch; and to his state, And to his message high in honour rise; For on som message high they guessd him bound. Thir glittering Tents he passd, and now is come Into the blissful field, through Groves of Myrrhe, And flouring Odours, Cassia, Nard, and Balme; A Wilderness of sweets; for Nature here Wantond as in her prime, and plaid at will Her Virgin Fancies, pouring forth more sweet, Wilde above rule or art; enormous bliss. Him through the spicie Forrest onward com ADAM discernd, as in the dore he sat Of his coole Bowre, while now the mounted Sun Shot down direct his fervid Raies, to warme Earths inmost womb, more warmth then ADAM need; And EVE within, due at her hour prepar'd For dinner savourie fruits, of taste to please True appetite, and not disrelish thirst Of nectarous draughts between, from milkie stream, Berrie or Grape: to whom thus ADAM call'd. Haste hither EVE, and worth thy sight behold Eastward among those Trees, what glorious shape Comes this way moving; seems another Morn Ris'n on mid-noon; som great behest from Heav'n To us perhaps he brings, and will voutsafe This day to be our Guest. But goe with speed, And what thy stores contain, bring

resolved

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

walk With Heav'nly touch of instrumental sounds In full harmonic number joind, thir songs Divide the night, and lift our thoughts to Heaven. Thus talking hand in hand alone they pass'd On to thir blissful Bower; it was a place Chos'n by the sovran Planter, when he fram'd All things to mans delightful use; the roofe Of thickest covert was inwoven shade Laurel and Mirtle, and what higher grew Of firm and fragrant leaf; on either side ACANTHUS, and each odorous bushie shrub Fenc'd up the verdant wall; each beauteous flour, IRIS all hues, Roses, and Gessamin Rear'd high thir flourisht heads between, and wrought Mosaic; underfoot the Violet, Crocus, and Hyacinth with rich inlay Broiderd the ground, more colour'd then with stone Of costliest Emblem: other Creature here Beast, Bird, Insect, or Worm durst enter none; Such was thir awe of man. In shadier Bower More sacred and sequesterd, though but feignd, PAN or SILVANUS never slept, nor Nymph, Nor FAUNUS haunted. Here in close recess With Flowers, Garlands, and sweet-smelling Herbs Espoused EVE deckt first her Nuptial Bed, And heav'nly Quires the Hymenaean sung, What day the genial Angel to our Sire Brought her in naked beauty more adorn'd, More lovely then PANDORA, whom the Gods Endowd with all thir gifts, and O too like In sad event, when to the unwiser Son Of JAPHET brought by HERMES, she ensnar'd Mankind with her faire looks, to be aveng'd On him who had stole JOVES authentic fire. Thus at thir shadie Lodge arriv'd, both stood, Both turnd, and under op'n Skie ador'd The God that made both Skie, Air, Earth & Heav'n Which they beheld, the Moons resplendent Globe And starrie Pole: Thou also mad'st the Night, Maker Omnipotent, and thou the Day, Which we in our appointed work imployd Have finisht happie in our mutual help And mutual love, the Crown of all our bliss Ordain'd by thee, and this delicious place For us too large, where thy abundance wants Partakers, and uncropt falls to the ground. But thou hast promis'd from us two a Race To fill the Earth, who shall with us extoll Thy goodness infinite, both when we wake, And when we seek, as now, thy gift of sleep. This said unanimous, and other Rites Observing none, but adoration pure Which God likes best, into thir inmost bower Handed they went; and eas'd the putting off These troublesom disguises which wee wear, Strait side by side were laid, nor turnd I weene ADAM from his fair Spouse, nor EVE the Rites Mysterious of connubial Love refus'd: Whatever Hypocrites austerely talk Of puritie and place and innocence, Defaming as impure what God declares Pure, and commands to som, leaves free to all. Our Maker bids increase, who bids abstain But our Destroyer, foe to God and Man? Haile wedded Love, mysterious Law, true source Of human ofspring, sole proprietie, In Paradise of all things common else. By thee adulterous lust was driv'n from men Among the bestial herds to raunge, by thee Founded in Reason, Loyal, Just, and Pure, Relations dear, and all the Charities Of Father, Son, and Brother first were known. Farr be it, that I should write thee sin or blame, Or think thee unbefitting holiest place, Perpetual Fountain of Domestic sweets, Whose Bed is undefil'd and chast pronounc't, Present, or past, as Saints and Patriarchs us'd. Here Love his golden shafts imploies, here lights His constant Lamp, and waves his purple wings, Reigns here and revels; not in the bought smile Of Harlots, loveless, joyless, unindeard, Casual fruition, nor in Court Amours Mixt Dance, or wanton Mask, or Midnight Bal, Or Serenate, which the starv'd Lover sings To his proud fair, best quitted with disdain. These lulld by Nightingales imbraceing slept, And on thir naked limbs the flourie roof Showrd Roses, which the Morn repair'd. Sleep on, Blest pair; and O yet happiest if ye seek No happier state, and know to know no more. Now had night measur'd with her shaddowie Cone Half way up Hill this vast Sublunar Vault, And from thir Ivorie Port the Cherubim Forth issuing at th' accustomd hour stood armd To thir night watches in warlike Parade, When GABRIEL to his next in power thus spake. UZZIEL, half these draw off, and coast the South With strictest watch; these other wheel the North, Our circuit meets full West. As flame they part Half wheeling to the Shield, half to the Spear. From these, two strong and suttle Spirits he calld That neer him stood, and gave them thus in charge. ITHURIEL and ZEPHON, with wingd speed Search through this Garden, leav unsearcht no nook, But chiefly where those two fair Creatures Lodge, Now laid perhaps asleep secure of harme. This Eevning from the Sun's decline arriv'd Who tells of som infernal Spirit seen Hitherward bent (who could have thought?) escap'd The barrs of Hell, on errand bad no doubt: Such where ye find, seise fast, and hither bring. So saying, on he led his radiant Files, Daz'ling the Moon; these to the Bower direct In search of whom they sought: him there they found Squat like a Toad, close at the eare of EVE; Assaying by his Devilish art to reach The Organs of her Fancie, and with them forge Illusions as he list, Phantasms and Dreams, Or if, inspiring venom, he might taint Th' animal Spirits that from pure blood arise Like gentle breaths from Rivers pure, thence raise At least distemperd, discontented thoughts, Vain hopes, vain aimes, inordinate desires Blown up with high conceits ingendring pride. Him thus intent ITHURIEL with his Spear Touch'd lightly; for no falshood can endure Touch of Celestial temper, but returns Of force to its own likeness: up he starts Discoverd and surpriz'd. As when a spark Lights on a heap of nitrous Powder, laid Fit for the Tun som Magazin to store Against a rumord Warr, the Smuttie graine With sudden blaze diffus'd, inflames the Aire: So started up in his own shape the Fiend. Back stept those two fair Angels half amaz'd So sudden to behold the grieslie King; Yet thus, unmovd with fear, accost him soon. Which of those rebell Spirits adjudg'd to Hell Com'st thou, escap'd thy prison, and transform'd, Why satst thou like an enemie in waite Here watching at the head of these that sleep? Know ye not then said SATAN, filld with scorn, Know ye not me? ye knew me once no mate For you, there sitting where ye durst not soare; Not to know mee argues your selves unknown, The lowest of your throng; or if ye know, Why ask ye, and superfluous begin Your message, like to end as much in vain? To whom thus ZEPHON, answering scorn with scorn. Think not, revolted Spirit, thy shape the same, Or undiminisht brightness, to be known As when thou stoodst in Heav'n upright and pure; That Glorie then, when thou no more wast good, Departed from thee, and thou resembl'st now Thy sin and place of doom obscure and foule. But come, for thou, be sure, shalt give account To him who sent us, whose charge is to keep This place inviolable, and these from harm. So spake the Cherube, and his grave rebuke Severe in youthful beautie, added grace Invincible: abasht the Devil stood, And felt how awful goodness is, and saw Vertue in her shape how lovly, saw, and pin'd His loss; but chiefly to find here observd His lustre visibly impar'd; yet seemd Undaunted. If I must contend, said he, Best with the best, the Sender not the sent, Or all at once; more glorie will be wonn, Or less be lost. Thy fear, said ZEPHON bold, Will save us trial what the least can doe Single against thee wicked, and thence weak. The Fiend repli'd not, overcome with rage; But like a proud Steed reind, went hautie on, Chaumping his iron curb: to strive or flie He held it vain; awe from above had quelld His heart, not else dismai'd. Now drew they nigh The western point, where those half-rounding guards Just met, & closing stood in squadron joind Awaiting next command. To whom thir Chief GABRIEL from the Front thus calld aloud. O friends, I hear the tread of nimble feet Hasting this way, and now by glimps discerne ITHURIEL and ZEPHON through the shade, And with them comes a third of Regal port, But faded splendor wan; who by his gate And fierce demeanour seems the Prince of Hell, Not likely to part hence without contest; Stand firm, for in his look defiance lours. He scarce had ended, when those two approachd And brief related whom they brought, wher found, How busied, in what form and posture coucht. To whom with stern regard thus GABRIEL spake. Why hast thou, SATAN, broke the bounds prescrib'd To thy transgressions, and disturbd the charge Of others, who approve not to transgress By thy example, but have power and right To question thy bold entrance on this place; Imploi'd it seems to violate sleep, and those Whose dwelling God hath planted here in bliss? To whom thus SATAN with contemptuous brow. GABRIEL, thou hadst in Heav'n th' esteem of wise, And such I held thee; but this question askt Puts me in doubt. Lives ther who loves his pain? Who would not, finding way, break loose from Hell, Though thither doomd? Thou wouldst thy self, no doubt, And boldly venture to whatever place Farthest from pain, where thou mightst hope to change Torment with ease, & soonest recompence Dole with delight, which in this place I sought; To thee no reason; who knowst only good, But evil hast not tri'd: and wilt object His will who bound us? let him surer barr His Iron Gates, if he intends our stay In that dark durance: thus much what was askt. The rest is true, they found me where they say; But that implies not violence or harme. Thus hee in scorn. The warlike Angel mov'd, Disdainfully half smiling thus repli'd. O loss of one in Heav'n to judge of wise, Since SATAN fell, whom follie overthrew, And now returns him from his prison scap't, Gravely in doubt whether to hold them wise Or not, who ask what boldness brought him hither Unlicenc't from his bounds in Hell prescrib'd; So wise he judges it to fly from pain However, and to scape his punishment. So judge thou still, presumptuous, till the wrauth, Which thou incurr'st by flying, meet thy flight Seavenfold, and scourge that wisdom back to Hell, Which taught thee yet no better, that no pain Can equal anger infinite provok't. But wherefore thou alone? wherefore with thee Came not all Hell broke loose? is pain to them Less pain, less to be fled, or thou then they Less hardie to endure? courageous Chief, The first in flight from pain, had'st thou alleg'd To thy deserted host this cause of flight, Thou surely hadst not come sole fugitive. To which the Fiend thus answerd frowning stern. Not that I less endure, or shrink from pain, Insulting Angel, well thou knowst I stood Thy fiercest, when in Battel to thy aide The blasting volied Thunder made all speed And seconded thy else not dreaded Spear. But still thy words at random, as before, Argue thy inexperience what behooves From hard assaies and ill successes past A faithful Leader, not to hazard all Through wayes of danger by himself untri'd. I therefore, I alone first undertook To wing the desolate Abyss, and spie This new created World, whereof in Hell Fame is not silent, here in hope to find Better abode, and my afflicted Powers To settle here on Earth, or in mid Aire; Though for possession put to try once more What thou and thy gay Legions dare against; Whose easier business were to serve thir Lord High up in Heav'n, with songs to hymne his Throne, And practis'd distances to cringe, not fight. To whom the warriour Angel soon repli'd. To say and strait unsay, pretending first Wise to flie pain, professing next the Spie, Argues no Leader, but a lyar trac't, SATAN, and couldst thou faithful add? O name, O sacred name of faithfulness profan'd! Faithful to whom? to thy rebellious crew? Armie of Fiends, fit body to fit head; Was this your discipline and faith ingag'd, Your military obedience, to dissolve Allegeance to th' acknowledg'd Power supream? And thou sly hypocrite, who now wouldst seem Patron of liberty, who more then thou Once fawn'd, and cring'd, and servilly ador'd Heav'ns awful Monarch? wherefore but in hope To dispossess him, and thy self to reigne? But mark what I arreede thee now, avant; Flie thither whence thou fledst: if from this houre Within these hallowd limits thou appeer, Back to th' infernal pit I drag thee chaind, And Seale thee so, as henceforth not to scorne The facil gates of hell too slightly barrd. So threatn'd hee, but SATAN to no threats Gave heed, but waxing more in rage repli'd. Then when I am thy captive talk of chaines, Proud limitarie Cherube, but ere then Farr heavier load thy self expect to feel From my prevailing arme, though Heavens King Ride on thy wings, and thou with thy Compeers, Us'd to the yoak, draw'st his triumphant wheels In progress through the rode of Heav'n Star-pav'd. While thus he spake, th' Angelic Squadron bright Turnd fierie red, sharpning in mooned hornes Thir Phalanx, and began to hemm him round With ported Spears, as thick as when a field Of CERES ripe for harvest waving bends Her bearded Grove of ears, which way the wind Swayes them; the careful Plowman doubting stands Least on the threshing floore his hopeful sheaves Prove chaff. On th' other side SATAN allarm'd Collecting all his might dilated stood, Like TENERIFF or ATLAS unremov'd: His stature reacht the Skie, and on his Crest Sat horror Plum'd; nor wanted in his graspe What seemd both Spear and Shield: now dreadful deeds Might have ensu'd, nor onely Paradise In this commotion, but the Starrie Cope Of Heav'n perhaps, or all the Elements At least had gon to rack, disturbd and torne With violence of this conflict, had not soon Th' Eternal to prevent such horrid fray Hung forth in Heav'n his golden Scales, yet seen Betwixt ASTREA and the SCORPION signe, Wherein all things created first he weighd, The pendulous round Earth with ballanc't Aire In counterpoise, now ponders all events, Battels and Realms: in these he put two weights The sequel each of parting and of fight; The latter quick up flew, and kickt the beam; Which GABRIEL spying, thus bespake the Fiend. SATAN, I know thy strength, and thou knowst mine, Neither our own but giv'n; what follie then To boast what Arms can doe, since thine no more Then Heav'n permits, nor mine, though doubld now To trample thee as mire: for proof look up, And read thy Lot in yon celestial Sign Where thou art weigh'd, & shown how light, how weak, If thou resist. The Fiend lookt up and knew His mounted scale aloft: nor more; but fled Murmuring, and with him fled the shades of night. THE END OF THE FOURTH BOOK. PARADISE LOST BOOK V. Now Morn her rosie steps in th' Eastern Clime Advancing, sow'd the Earth with Orient Pearle, When ADAM wak't, so customd, for his sleep Was Aerie light, from pure digestion bred, And temperat vapors bland, which th' only sound Of leaves and fuming rills, AURORA's fan, Lightly dispers'd, and the shrill Matin Song Of Birds on every bough; so much the more His wonder was to find unwak'nd EVE With Tresses discompos'd, and glowing Cheek, As through unquiet rest: he on his side Leaning half-rais'd, with looks of cordial Love Hung over her enamour'd, and beheld Beautie, which whether waking or asleep, Shot forth peculiar Graces; then with voice Milde, as when ZEPHYRUS on FLORA breathes, Her hand soft touching, whisperd thus. Awake My fairest, my espous'd, my latest found, Heav'ns last best gift, my ever new delight, Awake, the morning shines, and the fresh field Calls us, we lose the prime, to mark how spring Our tended Plants, how blows the Citron Grove, What drops the Myrrhe, & what the balmie Reed, How Nature paints her colours, how the Bee Sits on the Bloom extracting liquid sweet. Such whispering wak'd her, but with startl'd eye On ADAM, whom imbracing, thus she spake. O Sole in whom my thoughts find all repose, My Glorie, my Perfection, glad I see Thy face, and Morn return'd, for I this Night, Such night till this I never pass'd, have dream'd, If dream'd, not as I oft am wont, of thee, Works of day pass't, or morrows next designe, But of offence and trouble, which my mind Knew never till this irksom night; methought Close at mine ear one call'd me forth to walk With gentle voice, I thought it thine; it said, Why sleepst thou EVE? now is the pleasant time, The cool, the silent, save where silence yields To the night-warbling Bird, that now awake Tunes sweetest his love-labor'd song; now reignes Full Orb'd the Moon, and with more pleasing light Shadowie sets off the face of things; in vain, If none regard; Heav'n wakes with all his eyes, Whom to behold but thee, Natures desire, In whose sight all things joy, with ravishment Attracted by thy beauty still to gaze. I rose as at thy call, but found thee not; To find thee I directed then my walk; And on, methought, alone I pass'd through ways That brought me on a sudden to the Tree Of interdicted Knowledge: fair it seem'd, Much fairer to my Fancie then by day: And as I wondring lookt, beside it stood One shap'd & wing'd like one of those from Heav'n By us oft seen; his dewie locks distill'd Ambrosia; on that Tree he also gaz'd; And O fair Plant, said he, with fruit surcharg'd, Deigns none to ease thy load and taste thy sweet, Nor God, nor Man; is Knowledge so despis'd? Or envie, or what reserve forbids to taste? Forbid who will, none shall from me withhold Longer thy offerd good, why else set here? This said he paus'd not, but with ventrous Arme He pluckt, he tasted; mee damp horror chil'd At such bold words voucht with a deed so bold: But he thus overjoy'd, O Fruit Divine, Sweet of thy self, but much more sweet thus cropt, Forbidd'n here, it seems, as onely fit For Gods, yet able to make Gods of Men: And why not Gods of Men, since good, the more Communicated, more abundant growes, The Author not impair'd, but honourd more? Here, happie Creature, fair Angelic EVE, Partake thou also; happie though thou art, Happier thou mayst be, worthier canst not be: Taste this, and be henceforth among the Gods Thy self a Goddess, not to Earth confind, But somtimes in the Air, as wee, somtimes Ascend to Heav'n, by merit thine, and see What life the Gods live there, and such live thou. So saying, he drew nigh, and to me held, Even to my mouth of that same fruit held part Which he had pluckt; the pleasant savourie smell So quick'nd appetite, that I, methought, Could not but taste. Forthwith up to the Clouds With him I flew, and underneath beheld The Earth outstretcht immense, a prospect wide And various: wondring at my flight and change To this high exaltation; suddenly My Guide was gon, and I, me thought, sunk down, And fell asleep; but O how glad I wak'd To find this but a dream! Thus EVE her Night Related, and thus ADAM answerd sad. Best Image of my self and dearer half, The trouble of thy thoughts this night in sleep Affects me equally; nor can I like This uncouth dream, of evil sprung I fear; Yet evil whence? in thee can harbour none, Created pure. But know that in the Soule Are many lesser Faculties that serve Reason as chief; among these Fansie next Her office holds; of all external things, Which the five watchful Senses represent, She forms Imaginations, Aerie shapes, Which Reason joyning or disjoyning, frames All what we affirm or what deny, and call Our knowledge or opinion; then retires Into her private Cell when Nature rests. Oft in her absence mimic Fansie wakes To imitate her; but misjoyning shapes, Wilde work produces oft, and most in dreams, Ill matching words and deeds long past or late. Som such resemblances methinks I find Of our last Eevnings talk, in this thy dream, But with addition strange; yet be not sad. Evil into the mind of God or Man May come and go, so unapprov'd, and leave No spot or blame behind: Which gives me hope That what in sleep thou didst abhorr to dream, Waking thou never wilt consent to do. Be not disheart'nd then, nor cloud those looks That wont to be more chearful and serene Then when fair Morning first smiles on the World, And let us to our fresh imployments rise Among the Groves, the Fountains, and the Flours That open now thir choicest bosom'd smells Reservd from night, and kept for thee in store. So cheard he his fair Spouse, and she was cheard, But silently a gentle tear let fall From either eye, and wip'd them with her haire; Two other precious drops that ready stood, Each in thir chrystal sluce, hee ere they fell Kiss'd as the gracious signs of sweet remorse And pious awe, that feard to have offended. So all was cleard, and to the Field they haste. But first from under shadie arborous roof, Soon as they forth were come to open sight Of day-spring, and the Sun, who scarce up risen With wheels yet hov'ring o're the Ocean brim, Shot paralel to the earth his dewie ray, Discovering in wide Lantskip all the East Of Paradise and EDENS happie Plains, Lowly they bow'd adoring, and began Thir Orisons, each Morning duly paid In various style, for neither various style Nor holy rapture wanted they to praise Thir Maker, in fit strains pronounc't or sung Unmeditated, such prompt eloquence Flowd from thir lips, in Prose or numerous Verse, More tuneable then needed Lute or Harp To add more sweetness, and they thus began. These are thy glorious works, Parent of good, Almightie, thine this universal Frame, Thus wondrous fair; thy self how wondrous then! Unspeakable, who sitst above these Heavens To us invisible or dimly seen In these thy lowest works, yet these declare Thy goodness beyond thought, and Power Divine: Speak yee who best can tell, ye Sons of light, Angels, for yee behold him, and with songs And choral symphonies, Day without Night, Circle his Throne rejoycing, yee in Heav'n, On Earth joyn all yee Creatures to extoll Him first, him last, him midst, and without end. Fairest of Starrs, last in the train of Night, If better thou belong not to the dawn, Sure pledge of day, that crownst the smiling Morn With thy bright Circlet, praise him in thy Spheare While day arises, that sweet hour of Prime. Thou Sun, of this great World both Eye and Soule, Acknowledge him thy Greater, sound his praise In thy eternal course, both when thou climb'st, And when high Noon hast gaind, & when thou fallst. Moon, that now meetst the orient Sun, now fli'st With the fixt Starrs, fixt in thir Orb that flies, And yee five other wandring Fires that move In mystic Dance not without Song, resound His praise, who out of Darkness call'd up Light. Aire, and ye Elements the eldest birth Of Natures Womb, that in quaternion run Perpetual Circle, multiform; and mix And nourish all things, let your ceasless change Varie to our great Maker still new praise. Ye Mists and Exhalations that now rise From Hill or steaming Lake, duskie or grey, Till the Sun paint your fleecie skirts with Gold, In honour to the Worlds great Author rise, Whether to deck with Clouds the uncolourd skie, Or wet the thirstie Earth with falling showers, Rising or falling still advance his praise. His praise ye Winds, that from four Quarters blow, Breath soft or loud; and wave your tops, ye Pines, With every Plant, in sign of Worship wave. Fountains and yee, that warble, as ye flow, Melodious murmurs, warbling tune his praise. Joyn voices all ye living Souls, ye Birds, That singing up to Heaven Gate ascend, Bear on your wings and in your notes his praise; Yee that in Waters glide, and yee that walk The Earth, and stately tread, or lowly creep; Witness if I be silent, Morn or Eeven, To Hill, or Valley, Fountain, or fresh shade Made vocal by my Song, and taught his praise. Hail universal Lord, be bounteous still To give us onely good; and if the night Have gathered aught of evil or conceald, Disperse it, as now light dispels the dark. So pray'd they innocent, and to thir thoughts Firm peace recoverd soon and wonted calm. On to thir mornings rural work they haste Among sweet dewes and flours; where any row Of Fruit-trees overwoodie reachd too farr Thir pamperd boughes, and needed hands to check Fruitless imbraces: or they led the Vine To wed her Elm; she spous'd about him twines Her mariageable arms, and with her brings Her dowr th' adopted Clusters, to adorn His barren leaves. Them thus imploid beheld With pittie Heav'ns high King, and to him call'd RAPHAEL, the sociable Spirit, that deign'd To travel with TOBIAS, and secur'd His marriage with the seaventimes-wedded Maid. RAPHAEL, said hee, thou hear'st what stir on Earth SATAN from Hell scap't through the darksom Gulf Hath raisd in Paradise, and how disturbd This night the human pair, how he designes In them at once to ruin all mankind. Go therefore, half this day as friend with friend Converse with ADAM, in what Bowre or shade Thou find'st him from the heat of Noon retir'd, To respit his day-labour with repast, Or with repose; and such discourse bring on, As may advise him of his happie state, Happiness in his power left free to will, Left to his own free Will, his Will though free, Yet mutable; whence warne him to beware He swerve not too secure: tell him withall His danger, and from whom, what enemie Late falln himself from Heav'n, is plotting now The fall of others from like state of bliss; By violence, no, for that shall be withstood, But by deceit and lies; this let him know, Least wilfully transgressing he pretend Surprisal, unadmonisht, unforewarnd. So spake th' Eternal Father, and fulfilld All Justice: nor delaid the winged Saint After his charge receivd, but from among Thousand Celestial Ardors, where he stood Vaild with his gorgeous wings, up springing light Flew through the midst of Heav'n; th' angelic Quires On each hand parting, to his speed gave way Through all th' Empyreal road; till at the Gate Of Heav'n arriv'd, the gate self-opend wide On golden Hinges turning, as by work Divine the sov'ran Architect had fram'd. From hence, no cloud, or, to obstruct his sight, Starr interpos'd, however small he sees, Not unconform to other shining Globes, Earth and the Gard'n of God, with Cedars crownd Above all Hills. As when by night the Glass Of GALILEO, less assur'd, observes Imagind Lands and Regions in the Moon: Or Pilot from amidst the CYCLADES DELOS or SAMOS first appeering kenns A cloudy spot. Down thither prone in flight He speeds, and through the vast Ethereal Skie Sailes between worlds & worlds, with steddie wing Now on the polar windes, then with quick Fann Winnows the buxom Air; till within soare Of Towring Eagles, to all the Fowles he seems A PHOENIX, gaz'd by all, as that sole Bird When to enshrine his reliques in the Sun's Bright Temple, to AEGYPTIAN THEB'S he flies. At once on th' Eastern cliff of Paradise He lights, and to his proper shape returns A Seraph wingd; six wings he wore, to shade His lineaments Divine; the pair that clad Each shoulder broad, came mantling o're his brest With regal Ornament; the middle pair Girt like a Starrie Zone his waste, and round Skirted his loines and thighes with downie Gold And colours dipt in Heav'n; the third his feet Shaddowd from either heele with featherd maile Skie-tinctur'd grain. Like MAIA'S son he stood, And shook his Plumes, that Heav'nly fragrance filld The circuit wide. Strait knew him all the bands Of Angels under watch; and to his state, And to his message high in honour rise; For on som message high they guessd him bound. Thir glittering Tents he passd, and now is come Into the blissful field, through Groves of Myrrhe, And flouring Odours, Cassia, Nard, and Balme; A Wilderness of sweets; for Nature here Wantond as in her prime, and plaid at will Her Virgin Fancies, pouring forth more sweet, Wilde above rule or art; enormous bliss. Him through the spicie Forrest onward com ADAM discernd, as in the dore he sat Of his coole Bowre, while now the mounted Sun Shot down direct his fervid Raies, to warme Earths inmost womb, more warmth then ADAM need; And EVE within, due at her hour prepar'd For dinner savourie fruits, of taste to please True appetite, and not disrelish thirst Of nectarous draughts between, from milkie stream, Berrie or Grape: to whom thus ADAM call'd. Haste hither EVE, and worth thy sight behold Eastward among those Trees, what glorious shape Comes this way moving; seems another Morn Ris'n on mid-noon; som great behest from Heav'n To us perhaps he brings, and will voutsafe This day to be our Guest. But goe with speed, And what thy stores contain, bring

created

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

walk With Heav'nly touch of instrumental sounds In full harmonic number joind, thir songs Divide the night, and lift our thoughts to Heaven. Thus talking hand in hand alone they pass'd On to thir blissful Bower; it was a place Chos'n by the sovran Planter, when he fram'd All things to mans delightful use; the roofe Of thickest covert was inwoven shade Laurel and Mirtle, and what higher grew Of firm and fragrant leaf; on either side ACANTHUS, and each odorous bushie shrub Fenc'd up the verdant wall; each beauteous flour, IRIS all hues, Roses, and Gessamin Rear'd high thir flourisht heads between, and wrought Mosaic; underfoot the Violet, Crocus, and Hyacinth with rich inlay Broiderd the ground, more colour'd then with stone Of costliest Emblem: other Creature here Beast, Bird, Insect, or Worm durst enter none; Such was thir awe of man. In shadier Bower More sacred and sequesterd, though but feignd, PAN or SILVANUS never slept, nor Nymph, Nor FAUNUS haunted. Here in close recess With Flowers, Garlands, and sweet-smelling Herbs Espoused EVE deckt first her Nuptial Bed, And heav'nly Quires the Hymenaean sung, What day the genial Angel to our Sire Brought her in naked beauty more adorn'd, More lovely then PANDORA, whom the Gods Endowd with all thir gifts, and O too like In sad event, when to the unwiser Son Of JAPHET brought by HERMES, she ensnar'd Mankind with her faire looks, to be aveng'd On him who had stole JOVES authentic fire. Thus at thir shadie Lodge arriv'd, both stood, Both turnd, and under op'n Skie ador'd The God that made both Skie, Air, Earth & Heav'n Which they beheld, the Moons resplendent Globe And starrie Pole: Thou also mad'st the Night, Maker Omnipotent, and thou the Day, Which we in our appointed work imployd Have finisht happie in our mutual help And mutual love, the Crown of all our bliss Ordain'd by thee, and this delicious place For us too large, where thy abundance wants Partakers, and uncropt falls to the ground. But thou hast promis'd from us two a Race To fill the Earth, who shall with us extoll Thy goodness infinite, both when we wake, And when we seek, as now, thy gift of sleep. This said unanimous, and other Rites Observing none, but adoration pure Which God likes best, into thir inmost bower Handed they went; and eas'd the putting off These troublesom disguises which wee wear, Strait side by side were laid, nor turnd I weene ADAM from his fair Spouse, nor EVE the Rites Mysterious of connubial Love refus'd: Whatever Hypocrites austerely talk Of puritie and place and innocence, Defaming as impure what God declares Pure, and commands to som, leaves free to all. Our Maker bids increase, who bids abstain But our Destroyer, foe to God and Man? Haile wedded Love, mysterious Law, true source Of human ofspring, sole proprietie, In Paradise of all things common else. By thee adulterous lust was driv'n from men Among the bestial herds to raunge, by thee Founded in Reason, Loyal, Just, and Pure, Relations dear, and all the Charities Of Father, Son, and Brother first were known. Farr be it, that I should write thee sin or blame, Or think thee unbefitting holiest place, Perpetual Fountain of Domestic sweets, Whose Bed is undefil'd and chast pronounc't, Present, or past, as Saints and Patriarchs us'd. Here Love his golden shafts imploies, here lights His constant Lamp, and waves his purple wings, Reigns here and revels; not in the bought smile Of Harlots, loveless, joyless, unindeard, Casual fruition, nor in Court Amours Mixt Dance, or wanton Mask, or Midnight Bal, Or Serenate, which the starv'd Lover sings To his proud fair, best quitted with disdain. These lulld by Nightingales imbraceing slept, And on thir naked limbs the flourie roof Showrd Roses, which the Morn repair'd. Sleep on, Blest pair; and O yet happiest if ye seek No happier state, and know to know no more. Now had night measur'd with her shaddowie Cone Half way up Hill this vast Sublunar Vault, And from thir Ivorie Port the Cherubim Forth issuing at th' accustomd hour stood armd To thir night watches in warlike Parade, When GABRIEL to his next in power thus spake. UZZIEL, half these draw off, and coast the South With strictest watch; these other wheel the North, Our circuit meets full West. As flame they part Half wheeling to the Shield, half to the Spear. From these, two strong and suttle Spirits he calld That neer him stood, and gave them thus in charge. ITHURIEL and ZEPHON, with wingd speed Search through this Garden, leav unsearcht no nook, But chiefly where those two fair Creatures Lodge, Now laid perhaps asleep secure of harme. This Eevning from the Sun's decline arriv'd Who tells of som infernal Spirit seen Hitherward bent (who could have thought?) escap'd The barrs of Hell, on errand bad no doubt: Such where ye find, seise fast, and hither bring. So saying, on he led his radiant Files, Daz'ling the Moon; these to the Bower direct In search of whom they sought: him there they found Squat like a Toad, close at the eare of EVE; Assaying by his Devilish art to reach The Organs of her Fancie, and with them forge Illusions as he list, Phantasms and Dreams, Or if, inspiring venom, he might taint Th' animal Spirits that from pure blood arise Like gentle breaths from Rivers pure, thence raise At least distemperd, discontented thoughts, Vain hopes, vain aimes, inordinate desires Blown up with high conceits ingendring pride. Him thus intent ITHURIEL with his Spear Touch'd lightly; for no falshood can endure Touch of Celestial temper, but returns Of force to its own likeness: up he starts Discoverd and surpriz'd. As when a spark Lights on a heap of nitrous Powder, laid Fit for the Tun som Magazin to store Against a rumord Warr, the Smuttie graine With sudden blaze diffus'd, inflames the Aire: So started up in his own shape the Fiend. Back stept those two fair Angels half amaz'd So sudden to behold the grieslie King; Yet thus, unmovd with fear, accost him soon. Which of those rebell Spirits adjudg'd to Hell Com'st thou, escap'd thy prison, and transform'd, Why satst thou like an enemie in waite Here watching at the head of these that sleep? Know ye not then said SATAN, filld with scorn, Know ye not me? ye knew me once no mate For you, there sitting where ye durst not soare; Not to know mee argues your selves unknown, The lowest of your throng; or if ye know, Why ask ye, and superfluous begin Your message, like to end as much in vain? To whom thus ZEPHON, answering scorn with scorn. Think not, revolted Spirit, thy shape the same, Or undiminisht brightness, to be known As when thou stoodst in Heav'n upright and pure; That Glorie then, when thou no more wast good, Departed from thee, and thou resembl'st now Thy sin and place of doom obscure and foule. But come, for thou, be sure, shalt give account To him who sent us, whose charge is to keep This place inviolable, and these from harm. So spake the Cherube, and his grave rebuke Severe in youthful beautie, added grace Invincible: abasht the Devil stood, And felt how awful goodness is, and saw Vertue in her shape how lovly, saw, and pin'd His loss; but chiefly to find here observd His lustre visibly impar'd; yet seemd Undaunted. If I must contend, said he, Best with the best, the Sender not the sent, Or all at once; more glorie will be wonn, Or less be lost. Thy fear, said ZEPHON bold, Will save us trial what the least can doe Single against thee wicked, and thence weak. The Fiend repli'd not, overcome with rage; But like a proud Steed reind, went hautie on, Chaumping his iron curb: to strive or flie He held it vain; awe from above had quelld His heart, not else dismai'd. Now drew they nigh The western point, where those half-rounding guards Just met, & closing stood in squadron joind Awaiting next command. To whom thir Chief GABRIEL from the Front thus calld aloud. O friends, I hear the tread of nimble feet Hasting this way, and now by glimps discerne ITHURIEL and ZEPHON through the shade, And with them comes a third of Regal port, But faded splendor wan; who by his gate And fierce demeanour seems the Prince of Hell, Not likely to part hence without contest; Stand firm, for in his look defiance lours. He scarce had ended, when those two approachd And brief related whom they brought, wher found, How busied, in what form and posture coucht. To whom with stern regard thus GABRIEL spake. Why hast thou, SATAN, broke the bounds prescrib'd To thy transgressions, and disturbd the charge Of others, who approve not to transgress By thy example, but have power and right To question thy bold entrance on this place; Imploi'd it seems to violate sleep, and those Whose dwelling God hath planted here in bliss? To whom thus SATAN with contemptuous brow. GABRIEL, thou hadst in Heav'n th' esteem of wise, And such I held thee; but this question askt Puts me in doubt. Lives ther who loves his pain? Who would not, finding way, break loose from Hell, Though thither doomd? Thou wouldst thy self, no doubt, And boldly venture to whatever place Farthest from pain, where thou mightst hope to change Torment with ease, & soonest recompence Dole with delight, which in this place I sought; To thee no reason; who knowst only good, But evil hast not tri'd: and wilt object His will who bound us? let him surer barr His Iron Gates, if he intends our stay In that dark durance: thus much what was askt. The rest is true, they found me where they say; But that implies not violence or harme. Thus hee in scorn. The warlike Angel mov'd, Disdainfully half smiling thus repli'd. O loss of one in Heav'n to judge of wise, Since SATAN fell, whom follie overthrew, And now returns him from his prison scap't, Gravely in doubt whether to hold them wise Or not, who ask what boldness brought him hither Unlicenc't from his bounds in Hell prescrib'd; So wise he judges it to fly from pain However, and to scape his punishment. So judge thou still, presumptuous, till the wrauth, Which thou incurr'st by flying, meet thy flight Seavenfold, and scourge that wisdom back to Hell, Which taught thee yet no better, that no pain Can equal anger infinite provok't. But wherefore thou alone? wherefore with thee Came not all Hell broke loose? is pain to them Less pain, less to be fled, or thou then they Less hardie to endure? courageous Chief, The first in flight from pain, had'st thou alleg'd To thy deserted host this cause of flight, Thou surely hadst not come sole fugitive. To which the Fiend thus answerd frowning stern. Not that I less endure, or shrink from pain, Insulting Angel, well thou knowst I stood Thy fiercest, when in Battel to thy aide The blasting volied Thunder made all speed And seconded thy else not dreaded Spear. But still thy words at random, as before, Argue thy inexperience what behooves From hard assaies and ill successes past A faithful Leader, not to hazard all Through wayes of danger by himself untri'd. I therefore, I alone first undertook To wing the desolate Abyss, and spie This new created World, whereof in Hell Fame is not silent, here in hope to find Better abode, and my afflicted Powers To settle here on Earth, or in mid Aire; Though for possession put to try once more What thou and thy gay Legions dare against; Whose easier business were to serve thir Lord High up in Heav'n, with songs to hymne his Throne, And practis'd distances to cringe, not fight. To whom the warriour Angel soon repli'd. To say and strait unsay, pretending first Wise to flie pain, professing next the Spie, Argues no Leader, but a lyar trac't, SATAN, and couldst thou faithful add? O name, O sacred name of faithfulness profan'd! Faithful to whom? to thy rebellious crew? Armie of Fiends, fit body to fit head; Was this your discipline and faith ingag'd, Your military obedience, to dissolve Allegeance to th' acknowledg'd Power supream? And thou sly hypocrite, who now wouldst seem Patron of liberty, who more then thou Once fawn'd, and cring'd, and servilly ador'd Heav'ns awful Monarch? wherefore but in hope To dispossess him, and thy self to reigne? But mark what I arreede thee now, avant; Flie thither whence thou fledst: if from this houre Within these hallowd limits thou appeer, Back to th' infernal pit I drag thee chaind, And Seale thee so, as henceforth not to scorne The facil gates of hell too slightly barrd. So threatn'd hee, but SATAN to no threats Gave heed, but waxing more in rage repli'd. Then when I am thy captive talk of chaines, Proud limitarie Cherube, but ere then Farr heavier load thy self expect to feel From my prevailing arme, though Heavens King Ride on thy wings, and thou with thy Compeers, Us'd to the yoak, draw'st his triumphant wheels In progress through the rode of Heav'n Star-pav'd. While thus he spake, th' Angelic Squadron bright Turnd fierie red, sharpning in mooned hornes Thir Phalanx, and began to hemm him round With ported Spears, as thick as when a field Of CERES ripe for harvest waving bends Her bearded Grove of ears, which way the wind Swayes them; the careful Plowman doubting stands Least on the threshing floore his hopeful sheaves Prove chaff. On th' other side SATAN allarm'd Collecting all his might dilated stood, Like TENERIFF or ATLAS unremov'd: His stature reacht the Skie, and on his Crest Sat horror Plum'd; nor wanted in his graspe What seemd both Spear and Shield: now dreadful deeds Might have ensu'd, nor onely Paradise In this commotion, but the Starrie Cope Of Heav'n perhaps, or all the Elements At least had gon to rack, disturbd and torne With violence of this conflict, had not soon Th' Eternal to prevent such horrid fray Hung forth in Heav'n his golden Scales, yet seen Betwixt ASTREA and the SCORPION signe, Wherein all things created first he weighd, The pendulous round Earth with ballanc't Aire In counterpoise, now ponders all events, Battels and Realms: in these he put two weights The sequel each of parting and of fight; The latter quick up flew, and kickt the beam; Which GABRIEL spying, thus bespake the Fiend. SATAN, I know thy strength, and thou knowst mine, Neither our own but giv'n; what follie then To boast what Arms can doe, since thine no more Then Heav'n permits, nor mine, though doubld now To trample thee as mire: for proof look up, And read thy Lot in yon celestial Sign Where thou art weigh'd, & shown how light, how weak, If thou resist. The Fiend lookt up and knew His mounted scale aloft: nor more; but fled Murmuring, and with him fled the shades of night. THE END OF THE FOURTH BOOK. PARADISE LOST BOOK V. Now Morn her rosie steps in th' Eastern Clime Advancing, sow'd the Earth with Orient Pearle, When ADAM wak't, so customd, for his sleep Was Aerie light, from pure digestion bred, And temperat vapors bland, which th' only sound Of leaves and fuming rills, AURORA's fan, Lightly dispers'd, and the shrill Matin Song Of Birds on every bough; so much the more His wonder was to find unwak'nd EVE With Tresses discompos'd, and glowing Cheek, As through unquiet rest: he on his side Leaning half-rais'd, with looks of cordial Love Hung over her enamour'd, and beheld Beautie, which whether waking or asleep, Shot forth peculiar Graces; then with voice Milde, as when ZEPHYRUS on FLORA breathes, Her hand soft touching, whisperd thus. Awake My fairest, my espous'd, my latest found, Heav'ns last best gift, my ever new delight, Awake, the morning shines, and the fresh field Calls us, we lose the prime, to mark how spring Our tended Plants, how blows the Citron Grove, What drops the Myrrhe, & what the balmie Reed, How Nature paints her colours, how the Bee Sits on the Bloom extracting liquid sweet. Such whispering wak'd her, but with startl'd eye On ADAM, whom imbracing, thus she spake. O Sole in whom my thoughts find all repose, My Glorie, my Perfection, glad I see Thy face, and Morn return'd, for I this Night, Such night till this I never pass'd, have dream'd, If dream'd, not as I oft am wont, of thee, Works of day pass't, or morrows next designe, But of offence and trouble, which my mind Knew never till this irksom night; methought Close at mine ear one call'd me forth to walk With gentle voice, I thought it thine; it said, Why sleepst thou EVE? now is the pleasant time, The cool, the silent, save where silence yields To the night-warbling Bird, that now awake Tunes sweetest his love-labor'd song; now reignes Full Orb'd the Moon, and with more pleasing light Shadowie sets off the face of things; in vain, If none regard; Heav'n wakes with all his eyes, Whom to behold but thee, Natures desire, In whose sight all things joy, with ravishment Attracted by thy beauty still to gaze. I rose as at thy call, but found thee not; To find thee I directed then my walk; And on, methought, alone I pass'd through ways That brought me on a sudden to the Tree Of interdicted Knowledge: fair it seem'd, Much fairer to my Fancie then by day: And as I wondring lookt, beside it stood One shap'd & wing'd like one of those from Heav'n By us oft seen; his dewie locks distill'd Ambrosia; on that Tree he also gaz'd; And O fair Plant, said he, with fruit surcharg'd, Deigns none to ease thy load and taste thy sweet, Nor God, nor Man; is Knowledge so despis'd? Or envie, or what reserve forbids to taste? Forbid who will, none shall from me withhold Longer thy offerd good, why else set here? This said he paus'd not, but with ventrous Arme He pluckt, he tasted; mee damp horror chil'd At such bold words voucht with a deed so bold: But he thus overjoy'd, O Fruit Divine, Sweet of thy self, but much more sweet thus cropt, Forbidd'n here, it seems, as onely fit For Gods, yet able to make Gods of Men: And why not Gods of Men, since good, the more Communicated, more abundant growes, The Author not impair'd, but honourd more? Here, happie Creature, fair Angelic EVE, Partake thou also; happie though thou art, Happier thou mayst be, worthier canst not be: Taste this, and be henceforth among the Gods Thy self a Goddess, not to Earth confind, But somtimes in the Air, as wee, somtimes Ascend to Heav'n, by merit thine, and see What life the Gods live there, and such live thou. So saying, he drew nigh, and to me held, Even to my mouth of that same fruit held part Which he had pluckt; the pleasant savourie smell So quick'nd appetite, that I, methought, Could not but taste. Forthwith up to the Clouds With him I flew, and underneath beheld The Earth outstretcht immense, a prospect wide And various: wondring at my flight and change To this high exaltation; suddenly My Guide was gon, and I, me thought, sunk down, And fell asleep; but O how glad I wak'd To find this but a dream! Thus EVE her Night Related, and thus ADAM answerd sad. Best Image of my self and dearer half, The trouble of thy thoughts this night in sleep Affects me equally; nor can I like This uncouth dream, of evil sprung I fear; Yet evil whence? in thee can harbour none, Created pure. But know that in the Soule Are many lesser Faculties that serve Reason as chief; among these Fansie next Her office holds; of all external things, Which the five watchful Senses represent, She forms Imaginations, Aerie shapes, Which Reason joyning or disjoyning, frames All what we affirm or what deny, and call Our knowledge or opinion; then retires Into her private Cell when Nature rests. Oft in her absence mimic Fansie wakes To imitate her; but misjoyning shapes, Wilde work produces oft, and most in dreams, Ill matching words and deeds long past or late. Som such resemblances methinks I find Of our last Eevnings talk, in this thy dream, But with addition strange; yet be not sad. Evil into the mind of God or Man May come and go, so unapprov'd, and leave No spot or blame behind: Which gives me hope That what in sleep thou didst abhorr to dream, Waking thou never wilt consent to do. Be not disheart'nd then, nor cloud those looks That wont to be more chearful and serene Then when fair Morning first smiles on the World, And let us to our fresh imployments rise Among the Groves, the Fountains, and the Flours That open now thir choicest bosom'd smells Reservd from night, and kept for thee in store. So cheard he his fair Spouse, and she was cheard, But silently a gentle tear let fall From either eye, and wip'd them with her haire; Two other precious drops that ready stood, Each in thir chrystal sluce, hee ere they fell Kiss'd as the gracious signs of sweet remorse And pious awe, that feard to have offended. So all was cleard, and to the Field they haste. But first from under shadie arborous roof, Soon as they forth were come to open sight Of day-spring, and the Sun, who scarce up risen With wheels yet hov'ring o're the Ocean brim, Shot paralel to the earth his dewie ray, Discovering in wide Lantskip all the East Of Paradise and EDENS happie Plains, Lowly they bow'd adoring, and began Thir Orisons, each Morning duly paid In various style, for neither various style Nor holy rapture wanted they to praise Thir Maker, in fit strains pronounc't or sung Unmeditated, such prompt eloquence Flowd from thir lips, in Prose or numerous Verse, More tuneable then needed Lute or Harp To add more sweetness, and they thus began. These are thy glorious works, Parent of good, Almightie, thine this universal Frame, Thus wondrous fair; thy self how wondrous then! Unspeakable, who sitst above these Heavens To us invisible or dimly seen In these thy lowest works, yet these declare Thy goodness beyond thought, and Power Divine: Speak yee who best can tell, ye Sons of light, Angels, for yee behold him, and with songs And choral symphonies, Day without Night, Circle his Throne rejoycing, yee in Heav'n, On Earth joyn all yee Creatures to extoll Him first, him last, him midst, and without end. Fairest of Starrs, last in the train of Night, If better thou belong not to the dawn, Sure pledge of day, that crownst the smiling Morn With thy bright Circlet, praise him in thy Spheare While day arises, that sweet hour of Prime. Thou Sun, of this great World both Eye and Soule, Acknowledge him thy Greater, sound his praise In thy eternal course, both when thou climb'st, And when high Noon hast gaind, & when thou fallst. Moon, that now meetst the orient Sun, now fli'st With the fixt Starrs, fixt in thir Orb that flies, And yee five other wandring Fires that move In mystic Dance not without Song, resound His praise, who out of Darkness call'd up Light. Aire, and ye Elements the eldest birth Of Natures Womb, that in quaternion run Perpetual Circle, multiform; and mix And nourish all things, let your ceasless change Varie to our great Maker still new praise. Ye Mists and Exhalations that now rise From Hill or steaming Lake, duskie or grey, Till the Sun paint your fleecie skirts with Gold, In honour to the Worlds great Author rise, Whether to deck with Clouds the uncolourd skie, Or wet the thirstie Earth with falling showers, Rising or falling still advance his praise. His praise ye Winds, that from four Quarters blow, Breath soft or loud; and wave your tops, ye Pines, With every Plant, in sign of Worship wave. Fountains and yee, that warble, as ye flow, Melodious murmurs, warbling tune his praise. Joyn voices all ye living Souls, ye Birds, That singing up to Heaven Gate ascend, Bear on your wings and in your notes his praise; Yee that in Waters glide, and yee that walk The Earth, and stately tread, or lowly creep; Witness if I be silent, Morn or Eeven, To Hill, or Valley, Fountain, or fresh shade Made vocal by my Song, and taught his praise. Hail universal Lord, be bounteous still To give us onely good; and if the night Have gathered aught of evil or conceald, Disperse it, as now light dispels the dark. So pray'd they innocent, and to thir thoughts Firm peace recoverd soon and wonted calm. On to thir mornings rural work they haste Among sweet dewes and flours; where any row Of Fruit-trees overwoodie reachd too farr Thir pamperd boughes, and needed hands to check Fruitless imbraces: or they led the Vine To wed her Elm; she spous'd about him twines Her mariageable arms, and with her brings Her dowr th' adopted Clusters, to adorn His barren leaves. Them thus imploid beheld With pittie Heav'ns high King, and to him call'd RAPHAEL, the sociable Spirit, that deign'd To travel with TOBIAS, and secur'd His marriage with the seaventimes-wedded Maid. RAPHAEL, said hee, thou hear'st what stir on Earth SATAN from Hell scap't through the darksom Gulf Hath raisd in Paradise, and how disturbd This night the human pair, how he designes In them at once to ruin all mankind. Go therefore, half this day as friend with friend Converse with ADAM, in what Bowre or shade Thou find'st him from the heat of Noon retir'd, To respit his day-labour with repast, Or with repose; and such discourse bring on, As may advise him of his happie state, Happiness in his power left free to will, Left to his own free Will, his Will though free, Yet mutable; whence warne him to beware He swerve not too secure: tell him withall His danger, and from whom, what enemie Late falln himself from Heav'n, is plotting now The fall of others from like state of bliss; By violence, no, for that shall be withstood, But by deceit and lies; this let him know, Least wilfully transgressing he pretend Surprisal, unadmonisht, unforewarnd. So spake th' Eternal Father, and fulfilld All Justice: nor delaid the winged Saint After his charge receivd, but from among Thousand Celestial Ardors, where he stood Vaild with his gorgeous wings, up springing light Flew through the midst of Heav'n; th' angelic Quires On each hand parting, to his speed gave way Through all th' Empyreal road; till at the Gate Of Heav'n arriv'd, the gate self-opend wide On golden Hinges turning, as by work Divine the sov'ran Architect had fram'd. From hence, no cloud, or, to obstruct his sight, Starr interpos'd, however small he sees, Not unconform to other shining Globes, Earth and the Gard'n of God, with Cedars crownd Above all Hills. As when by night the Glass Of GALILEO, less assur'd, observes Imagind Lands and Regions in the Moon: Or Pilot from amidst the CYCLADES DELOS or SAMOS first appeering kenns A cloudy spot. Down thither prone in flight He speeds, and through the vast Ethereal Skie Sailes between worlds & worlds, with steddie wing Now on the polar windes, then with quick Fann Winnows the buxom Air; till within soare Of Towring Eagles, to all the Fowles he seems A PHOENIX, gaz'd by all, as that sole Bird When to enshrine his reliques in the Sun's Bright Temple, to AEGYPTIAN THEB'S he flies. At once on th' Eastern cliff of Paradise He lights, and to his proper shape returns A Seraph wingd; six wings he wore, to shade His lineaments Divine; the pair that clad Each shoulder broad, came mantling o're his brest With regal Ornament; the middle pair Girt like a Starrie Zone his waste, and round Skirted his loines and thighes with downie Gold And colours dipt in Heav'n; the third his feet Shaddowd from either heele with featherd maile Skie-tinctur'd grain. Like MAIA'S son he stood, And shook his Plumes, that Heav'nly fragrance filld The circuit wide. Strait knew him all the bands Of Angels under watch; and to his state, And to his message high in honour rise; For on som message high they guessd him bound. Thir glittering Tents he passd, and now is come Into the blissful field, through Groves of Myrrhe, And flouring Odours, Cassia, Nard, and Balme; A Wilderness of sweets; for Nature here Wantond as in her prime, and plaid at will Her Virgin Fancies, pouring forth more sweet, Wilde above rule or art; enormous bliss. Him through the spicie Forrest onward com ADAM discernd, as in the dore he sat Of his coole Bowre, while now the mounted Sun Shot down direct his fervid Raies, to warme Earths inmost womb, more warmth then ADAM need; And EVE within, due at her hour prepar'd For dinner savourie fruits, of taste to please True appetite, and not disrelish thirst Of nectarous draughts between, from milkie stream, Berrie or Grape: to whom thus ADAM call'd. Haste hither EVE, and worth thy sight behold Eastward among those Trees, what glorious shape Comes this way moving; seems another Morn Ris'n on mid-noon; som great behest from Heav'n To us perhaps he brings, and will voutsafe This day to be our Guest. But goe with speed, And what thy stores contain, bring

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walk With Heav'nly touch of instrumental sounds In full harmonic number joind, thir songs Divide the night, and lift our thoughts to Heaven. Thus talking hand in hand alone they pass'd On to thir blissful Bower; it was a place Chos'n by the sovran Planter, when he fram'd All things to mans delightful use; the roofe Of thickest covert was inwoven shade Laurel and Mirtle, and what higher grew Of firm and fragrant leaf; on either side ACANTHUS, and each odorous bushie shrub Fenc'd up the verdant wall; each beauteous flour, IRIS all hues, Roses, and Gessamin Rear'd high thir flourisht heads between, and wrought Mosaic; underfoot the Violet, Crocus, and Hyacinth with rich inlay Broiderd the ground, more colour'd then with stone Of costliest Emblem: other Creature here Beast, Bird, Insect, or Worm durst enter none; Such was thir awe of man. In shadier Bower More sacred and sequesterd, though but feignd, PAN or SILVANUS never slept, nor Nymph, Nor FAUNUS haunted. Here in close recess With Flowers, Garlands, and sweet-smelling Herbs Espoused EVE deckt first her Nuptial Bed, And heav'nly Quires the Hymenaean sung, What day the genial Angel to our Sire Brought her in naked beauty more adorn'd, More lovely then PANDORA, whom the Gods Endowd with all thir gifts, and O too like In sad event, when to the unwiser Son Of JAPHET brought by HERMES, she ensnar'd Mankind with her faire looks, to be aveng'd On him who had stole JOVES authentic fire. Thus at thir shadie Lodge arriv'd, both stood, Both turnd, and under op'n Skie ador'd The God that made both Skie, Air, Earth & Heav'n Which they beheld, the Moons resplendent Globe And starrie Pole: Thou also mad'st the Night, Maker Omnipotent, and thou the Day, Which we in our appointed work imployd Have finisht happie in our mutual help And mutual love, the Crown of all our bliss Ordain'd by thee, and this delicious place For us too large, where thy abundance wants Partakers, and uncropt falls to the ground. But thou hast promis'd from us two a Race To fill the Earth, who shall with us extoll Thy goodness infinite, both when we wake, And when we seek, as now, thy gift of sleep. This said unanimous, and other Rites Observing none, but adoration pure Which God likes best, into thir inmost bower Handed they went; and eas'd the putting off These troublesom disguises which wee wear, Strait side by side were laid, nor turnd I weene ADAM from his fair Spouse, nor EVE the Rites Mysterious of connubial Love refus'd: Whatever Hypocrites austerely talk Of puritie and place and innocence, Defaming as impure what God declares Pure, and commands to som, leaves free to all. Our Maker bids increase, who bids abstain But our Destroyer, foe to God and Man? Haile wedded Love, mysterious Law, true source Of human ofspring, sole proprietie, In Paradise of all things common else. By thee adulterous lust was driv'n from men Among the bestial herds to raunge, by thee Founded in Reason, Loyal, Just, and Pure, Relations dear, and all the Charities Of Father, Son, and Brother first were known. Farr be it, that I should write thee sin or blame, Or think thee unbefitting holiest place, Perpetual Fountain of Domestic sweets, Whose Bed is undefil'd and chast pronounc't, Present, or past, as Saints and Patriarchs us'd. Here Love his golden shafts imploies, here lights His constant Lamp, and waves his purple wings, Reigns here and revels; not in the bought smile Of Harlots, loveless, joyless, unindeard, Casual fruition, nor in Court Amours Mixt Dance, or wanton Mask, or Midnight Bal, Or Serenate, which the starv'd Lover sings To his proud fair, best quitted with disdain. These lulld by Nightingales imbraceing slept, And on thir naked limbs the flourie roof Showrd Roses, which the Morn repair'd. Sleep on, Blest pair; and O yet happiest if ye seek No happier state, and know to know no more. Now had night measur'd with her shaddowie Cone Half way up Hill this vast Sublunar Vault, And from thir Ivorie Port the Cherubim Forth issuing at th' accustomd hour stood armd To thir night watches in warlike Parade, When GABRIEL to his next in power thus spake. UZZIEL, half these draw off, and coast the South With strictest watch; these other wheel the North, Our circuit meets full West. As flame they part Half wheeling to the Shield, half to the Spear. From these, two strong and suttle Spirits he calld That neer him stood, and gave them thus in charge. ITHURIEL and ZEPHON, with wingd speed Search through this Garden, leav unsearcht no nook, But chiefly where those two fair Creatures Lodge, Now laid perhaps asleep secure of harme. This Eevning from the Sun's decline arriv'd Who tells of som infernal Spirit seen Hitherward bent (who could have thought?) escap'd The barrs of Hell, on errand bad no doubt: Such where ye find, seise fast, and hither bring. So saying, on he led his radiant Files, Daz'ling the Moon; these to the Bower direct In search of whom they sought: him there they found Squat like a Toad, close at the eare of EVE; Assaying by his Devilish art to reach The Organs of her Fancie, and with them forge Illusions as he list, Phantasms and Dreams, Or if, inspiring venom, he might taint Th' animal Spirits that from pure blood arise Like gentle breaths from Rivers pure, thence raise At least distemperd, discontented thoughts, Vain hopes, vain aimes, inordinate desires Blown up with high conceits ingendring pride. Him thus intent ITHURIEL with his Spear Touch'd lightly; for no falshood can endure Touch of Celestial temper, but returns Of force to its own likeness: up he starts Discoverd and surpriz'd. As when a spark Lights on a heap of nitrous Powder, laid Fit for the Tun som Magazin to store Against a rumord Warr, the Smuttie graine With sudden blaze diffus'd, inflames the Aire: So started up in his own shape the Fiend. Back stept those two fair Angels half amaz'd So sudden to behold the grieslie King; Yet thus, unmovd with fear, accost him soon. Which of those rebell Spirits adjudg'd to Hell Com'st thou, escap'd thy prison, and transform'd, Why satst thou like an enemie in waite Here watching at the head of these that sleep? Know ye not then said SATAN, filld with scorn, Know ye not me? ye knew me once no mate For you, there sitting where ye durst not soare; Not to know mee argues your selves unknown, The lowest of your throng; or if ye know, Why ask ye, and superfluous begin Your message, like to end as much in vain? To whom thus ZEPHON, answering scorn with scorn. Think not, revolted Spirit, thy shape the same, Or undiminisht brightness, to be known As when thou stoodst in Heav'n upright and pure; That Glorie then, when thou no more wast good, Departed from thee, and thou resembl'st now Thy sin and place of doom obscure and foule. But come, for thou, be sure, shalt give account To him who sent us, whose charge is to keep This place inviolable, and these from harm. So spake the Cherube, and his grave rebuke Severe in youthful beautie, added grace Invincible: abasht the Devil stood, And felt how awful goodness is, and saw Vertue in her shape how lovly, saw, and pin'd His loss; but chiefly to find here observd His lustre visibly impar'd; yet seemd Undaunted. If I must contend, said he, Best with the best, the Sender not the sent, Or all at once; more glorie will be wonn, Or less be lost. Thy fear, said ZEPHON bold, Will save us trial what the least can doe Single against thee wicked, and thence weak. The Fiend repli'd not, overcome with rage; But like a proud Steed reind, went hautie on, Chaumping his iron curb: to strive or flie He held it vain; awe from above had quelld His heart, not else dismai'd. Now drew they nigh The western point, where those half-rounding guards Just met, & closing stood in squadron joind Awaiting next command. To whom thir Chief GABRIEL from the Front thus calld aloud. O friends, I hear the tread of nimble feet Hasting this way, and now by glimps discerne ITHURIEL and ZEPHON through the shade, And with them comes a third of Regal port, But faded splendor wan; who by his gate And fierce demeanour seems the Prince of Hell, Not likely to part hence without contest; Stand firm, for in his look defiance lours. He scarce had ended, when those two approachd And brief related whom they brought, wher found, How busied, in what form and posture coucht. To whom with stern regard thus GABRIEL spake. Why hast thou, SATAN, broke the bounds prescrib'd To thy transgressions, and disturbd the charge Of others, who approve not to transgress By thy example, but have power and right To question thy bold entrance on this place; Imploi'd it seems to violate sleep, and those Whose dwelling God hath planted here in bliss? To whom thus SATAN with contemptuous brow. GABRIEL, thou hadst in Heav'n th' esteem of wise, And such I held thee; but this question askt Puts me in doubt. Lives ther who loves his pain? Who would not, finding way, break loose from Hell, Though thither doomd? Thou wouldst thy self, no doubt, And boldly venture to whatever place Farthest from pain, where thou mightst hope to change Torment with ease, & soonest recompence Dole with delight, which in this place I sought; To thee no reason; who knowst only good, But evil hast not tri'd: and wilt object His will who bound us? let him surer barr His Iron Gates, if he intends our stay In that dark durance: thus much what was askt. The rest is true, they found me where they say; But that implies not violence or harme. Thus hee in scorn. The warlike Angel mov'd, Disdainfully half smiling thus repli'd. O loss of one in Heav'n to judge of wise, Since SATAN fell, whom follie overthrew, And now returns him from his prison scap't, Gravely in doubt whether to hold them wise Or not, who ask what boldness brought him hither Unlicenc't from his bounds in Hell prescrib'd; So wise he judges it to fly from pain However, and to scape his punishment. So judge thou still, presumptuous, till the wrauth, Which thou incurr'st by flying, meet thy flight Seavenfold, and scourge that wisdom back to Hell, Which taught thee yet no better, that no pain Can equal anger infinite provok't. But wherefore thou alone? wherefore with thee Came not all Hell broke loose? is pain to them Less pain, less to be fled, or thou then they Less hardie to endure? courageous Chief, The first in flight from pain, had'st thou alleg'd To thy deserted host this cause of flight, Thou surely hadst not come sole fugitive. To which the Fiend thus answerd frowning stern. Not that I less endure, or shrink from pain, Insulting Angel, well thou knowst I stood Thy fiercest, when in Battel to thy aide The blasting volied Thunder made all speed And seconded thy else not dreaded Spear. But still thy words at random, as before, Argue thy inexperience what behooves From hard assaies and ill successes past A faithful Leader, not to hazard all Through wayes of danger by himself untri'd. I therefore, I alone first undertook To wing the desolate Abyss, and spie This new created World, whereof in Hell Fame is not silent, here in hope to find Better abode, and my afflicted Powers To settle here on Earth, or in mid Aire; Though for possession put to try once more What thou and thy gay Legions dare against; Whose easier business were to serve thir Lord High up in Heav'n, with songs to hymne his Throne, And practis'd distances to cringe, not fight. To whom the warriour Angel soon repli'd. To say and strait unsay, pretending first Wise to flie pain, professing next the Spie, Argues no Leader, but a lyar trac't, SATAN, and couldst thou faithful add? O name, O sacred name of faithfulness profan'd! Faithful to whom? to thy rebellious crew? Armie of Fiends, fit body to fit head; Was this your discipline and faith ingag'd, Your military obedience, to dissolve Allegeance to th' acknowledg'd Power supream? And thou sly hypocrite, who now wouldst seem Patron of liberty, who more then thou Once fawn'd, and cring'd, and servilly ador'd Heav'ns awful Monarch? wherefore but in hope To dispossess him, and thy self to reigne? But mark what I arreede thee now, avant; Flie thither whence thou fledst: if from this houre Within these hallowd limits thou appeer, Back to th' infernal pit I drag thee chaind, And Seale thee so, as henceforth not to scorne The facil gates of hell too slightly barrd. So threatn'd hee, but SATAN to no threats Gave heed, but waxing more in rage repli'd. Then when I am thy captive talk of chaines, Proud limitarie Cherube, but ere then Farr heavier load thy self expect to feel From my prevailing arme, though Heavens King Ride on thy wings, and thou with thy Compeers, Us'd to the yoak, draw'st his triumphant wheels In progress through the rode of Heav'n Star-pav'd. While thus he spake, th' Angelic Squadron bright Turnd fierie red, sharpning in mooned hornes Thir Phalanx, and began to hemm him round With ported Spears, as thick as when a field Of CERES ripe for harvest waving bends Her bearded Grove of ears, which way the wind Swayes them; the careful Plowman doubting stands Least on the threshing floore his hopeful sheaves Prove chaff. On th' other side SATAN allarm'd Collecting all his might dilated stood, Like TENERIFF or ATLAS unremov'd: His stature reacht the Skie, and on his Crest Sat horror Plum'd; nor wanted in his graspe What seemd both Spear and Shield: now dreadful deeds Might have ensu'd, nor onely Paradise In this commotion, but the Starrie Cope Of Heav'n perhaps, or all the Elements At least had gon to rack, disturbd and torne With violence of this conflict, had not soon Th' Eternal to prevent such horrid fray Hung forth in Heav'n his golden Scales, yet seen Betwixt ASTREA and the SCORPION signe, Wherein all things created first he weighd, The pendulous round Earth with ballanc't Aire In counterpoise, now ponders all events, Battels and Realms: in these he put two weights The sequel each of parting and of fight; The latter quick up flew, and kickt the beam; Which GABRIEL spying, thus bespake the Fiend. SATAN, I know thy strength, and thou knowst mine, Neither our own but giv'n; what follie then To boast what Arms can doe, since thine no more Then Heav'n permits, nor mine, though doubld now To trample thee as mire: for proof look up, And read thy Lot in yon celestial Sign Where thou art weigh'd, & shown how light, how weak, If thou resist. The Fiend lookt up and knew His mounted scale aloft: nor more; but fled Murmuring, and with him fled the shades of night. THE END OF THE FOURTH BOOK. PARADISE LOST BOOK V. Now Morn her rosie steps in th' Eastern Clime Advancing, sow'd the Earth with Orient Pearle, When ADAM wak't, so customd, for his sleep Was Aerie light, from pure digestion bred, And temperat vapors bland, which th' only sound Of leaves and fuming rills, AURORA's fan, Lightly dispers'd, and the shrill Matin Song Of Birds on every bough; so much the more His wonder was to find unwak'nd EVE With Tresses discompos'd, and glowing Cheek, As through unquiet rest: he on his side Leaning half-rais'd, with looks of cordial Love Hung over her enamour'd, and beheld Beautie, which whether waking or asleep, Shot forth peculiar Graces; then with voice Milde, as when ZEPHYRUS on FLORA breathes, Her hand soft touching, whisperd thus. Awake My fairest, my espous'd, my latest found, Heav'ns last best gift, my ever new delight, Awake, the morning shines, and the fresh field Calls us, we lose the prime, to mark how spring Our tended Plants, how blows the Citron Grove, What drops the Myrrhe, & what the balmie Reed, How Nature paints her colours, how the Bee Sits on the Bloom extracting liquid sweet. Such whispering wak'd her, but with startl'd eye On ADAM, whom imbracing, thus she spake. O Sole in whom my thoughts find all repose, My Glorie, my Perfection, glad I see Thy face, and Morn return'd, for I this Night, Such night till this I never pass'd, have dream'd, If dream'd, not as I oft am wont, of thee, Works of day pass't, or morrows next designe, But of offence and trouble, which my mind Knew never till this irksom night; methought Close at mine ear one call'd me forth to walk With gentle voice, I thought it thine; it said, Why sleepst thou EVE? now is the pleasant time, The cool, the silent, save where silence yields To the night-warbling Bird, that now awake Tunes sweetest his love-labor'd song; now reignes Full Orb'd the Moon, and with more pleasing light Shadowie sets off the face of things; in vain, If none regard; Heav'n wakes with all his eyes, Whom to behold but thee, Natures desire, In whose sight all things joy, with ravishment Attracted by thy beauty still to gaze. I rose as at thy call, but found thee not; To find thee I directed then my walk; And on, methought, alone I pass'd through ways That brought me on a sudden to the Tree Of interdicted Knowledge: fair it seem'd, Much fairer to my Fancie then by day: And as I wondring lookt, beside it stood One shap'd & wing'd like one of those from Heav'n By us oft seen; his dewie locks distill'd Ambrosia; on that Tree he also gaz'd; And O fair Plant, said he, with fruit surcharg'd, Deigns none to ease thy load and taste thy sweet, Nor God, nor Man; is Knowledge so despis'd? Or envie, or what reserve forbids to taste? Forbid who will, none shall from me withhold Longer thy offerd good, why else set here? This said he paus'd not, but with ventrous Arme He pluckt, he tasted; mee damp horror chil'd At such bold words voucht with a deed so bold: But he thus overjoy'd, O Fruit Divine, Sweet of thy self, but much more sweet thus cropt, Forbidd'n here, it seems, as onely fit For Gods, yet able to make Gods of Men: And why not Gods of Men, since good, the more Communicated, more abundant growes, The Author not impair'd, but honourd more? Here, happie Creature, fair Angelic EVE, Partake thou also; happie though thou art, Happier thou mayst be, worthier canst not be: Taste this, and be henceforth among the Gods Thy self a Goddess, not to Earth confind, But somtimes in the Air, as wee, somtimes Ascend to Heav'n, by merit thine, and see What life the Gods live there, and such live thou. So saying, he drew nigh, and to me held, Even to my mouth of that same fruit held part Which he had pluckt; the pleasant savourie smell So quick'nd appetite, that I, methought, Could not but taste. Forthwith up to the Clouds With him I flew, and underneath beheld The Earth outstretcht immense, a prospect wide And various: wondring at my flight and change To this high exaltation; suddenly My Guide was gon, and I, me thought, sunk down, And fell asleep; but O how glad I wak'd To find this but a dream! Thus EVE her Night Related, and thus ADAM answerd sad. Best Image of my self and dearer half, The trouble of thy thoughts this night in sleep Affects me equally; nor can I like This uncouth dream, of evil sprung I fear; Yet evil whence? in thee can harbour none, Created pure. But know that in the Soule Are many lesser Faculties that serve Reason as chief; among these Fansie next Her office holds; of all external things, Which the five watchful Senses represent, She forms Imaginations, Aerie shapes, Which Reason joyning or disjoyning, frames All what we affirm or what deny, and call Our knowledge or opinion; then retires Into her private Cell when Nature rests. Oft in her absence mimic Fansie wakes To imitate her; but misjoyning shapes, Wilde work produces oft, and most in dreams, Ill matching words and deeds long past or late. Som such resemblances methinks I find Of our last Eevnings talk, in this thy dream, But with addition strange; yet be not sad. Evil into the mind of God or Man May come and go, so unapprov'd, and leave No spot or blame behind: Which gives me hope That what in sleep thou didst abhorr to dream, Waking thou never wilt consent to do. Be not disheart'nd then, nor cloud those looks That wont to be more chearful and serene Then when fair Morning first smiles on the World, And let us to our fresh imployments rise Among the Groves, the Fountains, and the Flours That open now thir choicest bosom'd smells Reservd from night, and kept for thee in store. So cheard he his fair Spouse, and she was cheard, But silently a gentle tear let fall From either eye, and wip'd them with her haire; Two other precious drops that ready stood, Each in thir chrystal sluce, hee ere they fell Kiss'd as the gracious signs of sweet remorse And pious awe, that feard to have offended. So all was cleard, and to the Field they haste. But first from under shadie arborous roof, Soon as they forth were come to open sight Of day-spring, and the Sun, who scarce up risen With wheels yet hov'ring o're the Ocean brim, Shot paralel to the earth his dewie ray, Discovering in wide Lantskip all the East Of Paradise and EDENS happie Plains, Lowly they bow'd adoring, and began Thir Orisons, each Morning duly paid In various style, for neither various style Nor holy rapture wanted they to praise Thir Maker, in fit strains pronounc't or sung Unmeditated, such prompt eloquence Flowd from thir lips, in Prose or numerous Verse, More tuneable then needed Lute or Harp To add more sweetness, and they thus began. These are thy glorious works, Parent of good, Almightie, thine this universal Frame, Thus wondrous fair; thy self how wondrous then! Unspeakable, who sitst above these Heavens To us invisible or dimly seen In these thy lowest works, yet these declare Thy goodness beyond thought, and Power Divine: Speak yee who best can tell, ye Sons of light, Angels, for yee behold him, and with songs And choral symphonies, Day without Night, Circle his Throne rejoycing, yee in Heav'n, On Earth joyn all yee Creatures to extoll Him first, him last, him midst, and without end. Fairest of Starrs, last in the train of Night, If better thou belong not to the dawn, Sure pledge of day, that crownst the smiling Morn With thy bright Circlet, praise him in thy Spheare While day arises, that sweet hour of Prime. Thou Sun, of this great World both Eye and Soule, Acknowledge him thy Greater, sound his praise In thy eternal course, both when thou climb'st, And when high Noon hast gaind, & when thou fallst. Moon, that now meetst the orient Sun, now fli'st With the fixt Starrs, fixt in thir Orb that flies, And yee five other wandring Fires that move In mystic Dance not without Song, resound His praise, who out of Darkness call'd up Light. Aire, and ye Elements the eldest birth Of Natures Womb, that in quaternion run Perpetual Circle, multiform; and mix And nourish all things, let your ceasless change Varie to our great Maker still new praise. Ye Mists and Exhalations that now rise From Hill or steaming Lake, duskie or grey, Till the Sun paint your fleecie skirts with Gold, In honour to the Worlds great Author rise, Whether to deck with Clouds the uncolourd skie, Or wet the thirstie Earth with falling showers, Rising or falling still advance his praise. His praise ye Winds, that from four Quarters blow, Breath soft or loud; and wave your tops, ye Pines, With every Plant, in sign of Worship wave. Fountains and yee, that warble, as ye flow, Melodious murmurs, warbling tune his praise. Joyn voices all ye living Souls, ye Birds, That singing up to Heaven Gate ascend, Bear on your wings and in your notes his praise; Yee that in Waters glide, and yee that walk The Earth, and stately tread, or lowly creep; Witness if I be silent, Morn or Eeven, To Hill, or Valley, Fountain, or fresh shade Made vocal by my Song, and taught his praise. Hail universal Lord, be bounteous still To give us onely good; and if the night Have gathered aught of evil or conceald, Disperse it, as now light dispels the dark. So pray'd they innocent, and to thir thoughts Firm peace recoverd soon and wonted calm. On to thir mornings rural work they haste Among sweet dewes and flours; where any row Of Fruit-trees overwoodie reachd too farr Thir pamperd boughes, and needed hands to check Fruitless imbraces: or they led the Vine To wed her Elm; she spous'd about him twines Her mariageable arms, and with her brings Her dowr th' adopted Clusters, to adorn His barren leaves. Them thus imploid beheld With pittie Heav'ns high King, and to him call'd RAPHAEL, the sociable Spirit, that deign'd To travel with TOBIAS, and secur'd His marriage with the seaventimes-wedded Maid. RAPHAEL, said hee, thou hear'st what stir on Earth SATAN from Hell scap't through the darksom Gulf Hath raisd in Paradise, and how disturbd This night the human pair, how he designes In them at once to ruin all mankind. Go therefore, half this day as friend with friend Converse with ADAM, in what Bowre or shade Thou find'st him from the heat of Noon retir'd, To respit his day-labour with repast, Or with repose; and such discourse bring on, As may advise him of his happie state, Happiness in his power left free to will, Left to his own free Will, his Will though free, Yet mutable; whence warne him to beware He swerve not too secure: tell him withall His danger, and from whom, what enemie Late falln himself from Heav'n, is plotting now The fall of others from like state of bliss; By violence, no, for that shall be withstood, But by deceit and lies; this let him know, Least wilfully transgressing he pretend Surprisal, unadmonisht, unforewarnd. So spake th' Eternal Father, and fulfilld All Justice: nor delaid the winged Saint After his charge receivd, but from among Thousand Celestial Ardors, where he stood Vaild with his gorgeous wings, up springing light Flew through the midst of Heav'n; th' angelic Quires On each hand parting, to his speed gave way Through all th' Empyreal road; till at the Gate Of Heav'n arriv'd, the gate self-opend wide On golden Hinges turning, as by work Divine the sov'ran Architect had fram'd. From hence, no cloud, or, to obstruct his sight, Starr interpos'd, however small he sees, Not unconform to other shining Globes, Earth and the Gard'n of God, with Cedars crownd Above all Hills. As when by night the Glass Of GALILEO, less assur'd, observes Imagind Lands and Regions in the Moon: Or Pilot from amidst the CYCLADES DELOS or SAMOS first appeering kenns A cloudy spot. Down thither prone in flight He speeds, and through the vast Ethereal Skie Sailes between worlds & worlds, with steddie wing Now on the polar windes, then with quick Fann Winnows the buxom Air; till within soare Of Towring Eagles, to all the Fowles he seems A PHOENIX, gaz'd by all, as that sole Bird When to enshrine his reliques in the Sun's Bright Temple, to AEGYPTIAN THEB'S he flies. At once on th' Eastern cliff of Paradise He lights, and to his proper shape returns A Seraph wingd; six wings he wore, to shade His lineaments Divine; the pair that clad Each shoulder broad, came mantling o're his brest With regal Ornament; the middle pair Girt like a Starrie Zone his waste, and round Skirted his loines and thighes with downie Gold And colours dipt in Heav'n; the third his feet Shaddowd from either heele with featherd maile Skie-tinctur'd grain. Like MAIA'S son he stood, And shook his Plumes, that Heav'nly fragrance filld The circuit wide. Strait knew him all the bands Of Angels under watch; and to his state, And to his message high in honour rise; For on som message high they guessd him bound. Thir glittering Tents he passd, and now is come Into the blissful field, through Groves of Myrrhe, And flouring Odours, Cassia, Nard, and Balme; A Wilderness of sweets; for Nature here Wantond as in her prime, and plaid at will Her Virgin Fancies, pouring forth more sweet, Wilde above rule or art; enormous bliss. Him through the spicie Forrest onward com ADAM discernd, as in the dore he sat Of his coole Bowre, while now the mounted Sun Shot down direct his fervid Raies, to warme Earths inmost womb, more warmth then ADAM need; And EVE within, due at her hour prepar'd For dinner savourie fruits, of taste to please True appetite, and not disrelish thirst Of nectarous draughts between, from milkie stream, Berrie or Grape: to whom thus ADAM call'd. Haste hither EVE, and worth thy sight behold Eastward among those Trees, what glorious shape Comes this way moving; seems another Morn Ris'n on mid-noon; som great behest from Heav'n To us perhaps he brings, and will voutsafe This day to be our Guest. But goe with speed, And what thy stores contain, bring

gee

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

walk With Heav'nly touch of instrumental sounds In full harmonic number joind, thir songs Divide the night, and lift our thoughts to Heaven. Thus talking hand in hand alone they pass'd On to thir blissful Bower; it was a place Chos'n by the sovran Planter, when he fram'd All things to mans delightful use; the roofe Of thickest covert was inwoven shade Laurel and Mirtle, and what higher grew Of firm and fragrant leaf; on either side ACANTHUS, and each odorous bushie shrub Fenc'd up the verdant wall; each beauteous flour, IRIS all hues, Roses, and Gessamin Rear'd high thir flourisht heads between, and wrought Mosaic; underfoot the Violet, Crocus, and Hyacinth with rich inlay Broiderd the ground, more colour'd then with stone Of costliest Emblem: other Creature here Beast, Bird, Insect, or Worm durst enter none; Such was thir awe of man. In shadier Bower More sacred and sequesterd, though but feignd, PAN or SILVANUS never slept, nor Nymph, Nor FAUNUS haunted. Here in close recess With Flowers, Garlands, and sweet-smelling Herbs Espoused EVE deckt first her Nuptial Bed, And heav'nly Quires the Hymenaean sung, What day the genial Angel to our Sire Brought her in naked beauty more adorn'd, More lovely then PANDORA, whom the Gods Endowd with all thir gifts, and O too like In sad event, when to the unwiser Son Of JAPHET brought by HERMES, she ensnar'd Mankind with her faire looks, to be aveng'd On him who had stole JOVES authentic fire. Thus at thir shadie Lodge arriv'd, both stood, Both turnd, and under op'n Skie ador'd The God that made both Skie, Air, Earth & Heav'n Which they beheld, the Moons resplendent Globe And starrie Pole: Thou also mad'st the Night, Maker Omnipotent, and thou the Day, Which we in our appointed work imployd Have finisht happie in our mutual help And mutual love, the Crown of all our bliss Ordain'd by thee, and this delicious place For us too large, where thy abundance wants Partakers, and uncropt falls to the ground. But thou hast promis'd from us two a Race To fill the Earth, who shall with us extoll Thy goodness infinite, both when we wake, And when we seek, as now, thy gift of sleep. This said unanimous, and other Rites Observing none, but adoration pure Which God likes best, into thir inmost bower Handed they went; and eas'd the putting off These troublesom disguises which wee wear, Strait side by side were laid, nor turnd I weene ADAM from his fair Spouse, nor EVE the Rites Mysterious of connubial Love refus'd: Whatever Hypocrites austerely talk Of puritie and place and innocence, Defaming as impure what God declares Pure, and commands to som, leaves free to all. Our Maker bids increase, who bids abstain But our Destroyer, foe to God and Man? Haile wedded Love, mysterious Law, true source Of human ofspring, sole proprietie, In Paradise of all things common else. By thee adulterous lust was driv'n from men Among the bestial herds to raunge, by thee Founded in Reason, Loyal, Just, and Pure, Relations dear, and all the Charities Of Father, Son, and Brother first were known. Farr be it, that I should write thee sin or blame, Or think thee unbefitting holiest place, Perpetual Fountain of Domestic sweets, Whose Bed is undefil'd and chast pronounc't, Present, or past, as Saints and Patriarchs us'd. Here Love his golden shafts imploies, here lights His constant Lamp, and waves his purple wings, Reigns here and revels; not in the bought smile Of Harlots, loveless, joyless, unindeard, Casual fruition, nor in Court Amours Mixt Dance, or wanton Mask, or Midnight Bal, Or Serenate, which the starv'd Lover sings To his proud fair, best quitted with disdain. These lulld by Nightingales imbraceing slept, And on thir naked limbs the flourie roof Showrd Roses, which the Morn repair'd. Sleep on, Blest pair; and O yet happiest if ye seek No happier state, and know to know no more. Now had night measur'd with her shaddowie Cone Half way up Hill this vast Sublunar Vault, And from thir Ivorie Port the Cherubim Forth issuing at th' accustomd hour stood armd To thir night watches in warlike Parade, When GABRIEL to his next in power thus spake. UZZIEL, half these draw off, and coast the South With strictest watch; these other wheel the North, Our circuit meets full West. As flame they part Half wheeling to the Shield, half to the Spear. From these, two strong and suttle Spirits he calld That neer him stood, and gave them thus in charge. ITHURIEL and ZEPHON, with wingd speed Search through this Garden, leav unsearcht no nook, But chiefly where those two fair Creatures Lodge, Now laid perhaps asleep secure of harme. This Eevning from the Sun's decline arriv'd Who tells of som infernal Spirit seen Hitherward bent (who could have thought?) escap'd The barrs of Hell, on errand bad no doubt: Such where ye find, seise fast, and hither bring. So saying, on he led his radiant Files, Daz'ling the Moon; these to the Bower direct In search of whom they sought: him there they found Squat like a Toad, close at the eare of EVE; Assaying by his Devilish art to reach The Organs of her Fancie, and with them forge Illusions as he list, Phantasms and Dreams, Or if, inspiring venom, he might taint Th' animal Spirits that from pure blood arise Like gentle breaths from Rivers pure, thence raise At least distemperd, discontented thoughts, Vain hopes, vain aimes, inordinate desires Blown up with high conceits ingendring pride. Him thus intent ITHURIEL with his Spear Touch'd lightly; for no falshood can endure Touch of Celestial temper, but returns Of force to its own likeness: up he starts Discoverd and surpriz'd. As when a spark Lights on a heap of nitrous Powder, laid Fit for the Tun som Magazin to store Against a rumord Warr, the Smuttie graine With sudden blaze diffus'd, inflames the Aire: So started up in his own shape the Fiend. Back stept those two fair Angels half amaz'd So sudden to behold the grieslie King; Yet thus, unmovd with fear, accost him soon. Which of those rebell Spirits adjudg'd to Hell Com'st thou, escap'd thy prison, and transform'd, Why satst thou like an enemie in waite Here watching at the head of these that sleep? Know ye not then said SATAN, filld with scorn, Know ye not me? ye knew me once no mate For you, there sitting where ye durst not soare; Not to know mee argues your selves unknown, The lowest of your throng; or if ye know, Why ask ye, and superfluous begin Your message, like to end as much in vain? To whom thus ZEPHON, answering scorn with scorn. Think not, revolted Spirit, thy shape the same, Or undiminisht brightness, to be known As when thou stoodst in Heav'n upright and pure; That Glorie then, when thou no more wast good, Departed from thee, and thou resembl'st now Thy sin and place of doom obscure and foule. But come, for thou, be sure, shalt give account To him who sent us, whose charge is to keep This place inviolable, and these from harm. So spake the Cherube, and his grave rebuke Severe in youthful beautie, added grace Invincible: abasht the Devil stood, And felt how awful goodness is, and saw Vertue in her shape how lovly, saw, and pin'd His loss; but chiefly to find here observd His lustre visibly impar'd; yet seemd Undaunted. If I must contend, said he, Best with the best, the Sender not the sent, Or all at once; more glorie will be wonn, Or less be lost. Thy fear, said ZEPHON bold, Will save us trial what the least can doe Single against thee wicked, and thence weak. The Fiend repli'd not, overcome with rage; But like a proud Steed reind, went hautie on, Chaumping his iron curb: to strive or flie He held it vain; awe from above had quelld His heart, not else dismai'd. Now drew they nigh The western point, where those half-rounding guards Just met, & closing stood in squadron joind Awaiting next command. To whom thir Chief GABRIEL from the Front thus calld aloud. O friends, I hear the tread of nimble feet Hasting this way, and now by glimps discerne ITHURIEL and ZEPHON through the shade, And with them comes a third of Regal port, But faded splendor wan; who by his gate And fierce demeanour seems the Prince of Hell, Not likely to part hence without contest; Stand firm, for in his look defiance lours. He scarce had ended, when those two approachd And brief related whom they brought, wher found, How busied, in what form and posture coucht. To whom with stern regard thus GABRIEL spake. Why hast thou, SATAN, broke the bounds prescrib'd To thy transgressions, and disturbd the charge Of others, who approve not to transgress By thy example, but have power and right To question thy bold entrance on this place; Imploi'd it seems to violate sleep, and those Whose dwelling God hath planted here in bliss? To whom thus SATAN with contemptuous brow. GABRIEL, thou hadst in Heav'n th' esteem of wise, And such I held thee; but this question askt Puts me in doubt. Lives ther who loves his pain? Who would not, finding way, break loose from Hell, Though thither doomd? Thou wouldst thy self, no doubt, And boldly venture to whatever place Farthest from pain, where thou mightst hope to change Torment with ease, & soonest recompence Dole with delight, which in this place I sought; To thee no reason; who knowst only good, But evil hast not tri'd: and wilt object His will who bound us? let him surer barr His Iron Gates, if he intends our stay In that dark durance: thus much what was askt. The rest is true, they found me where they say; But that implies not violence or harme. Thus hee in scorn. The warlike Angel mov'd, Disdainfully half smiling thus repli'd. O loss of one in Heav'n to judge of wise, Since SATAN fell, whom follie overthrew, And now returns him from his prison scap't, Gravely in doubt whether to hold them wise Or not, who ask what boldness brought him hither Unlicenc't from his bounds in Hell prescrib'd; So wise he judges it to fly from pain However, and to scape his punishment. So judge thou still, presumptuous, till the wrauth, Which thou incurr'st by flying, meet thy flight Seavenfold, and scourge that wisdom back to Hell, Which taught thee yet no better, that no pain Can equal anger infinite provok't. But wherefore thou alone? wherefore with thee Came not all Hell broke loose? is pain to them Less pain, less to be fled, or thou then they Less hardie to endure? courageous Chief, The first in flight from pain, had'st thou alleg'd To thy deserted host this cause of flight, Thou surely hadst not come sole fugitive. To which the Fiend thus answerd frowning stern. Not that I less endure, or shrink from pain, Insulting Angel, well thou knowst I stood Thy fiercest, when in Battel to thy aide The blasting volied Thunder made all speed And seconded thy else not dreaded Spear. But still thy words at random, as before, Argue thy inexperience what behooves From hard assaies and ill successes past A faithful Leader, not to hazard all Through wayes of danger by himself untri'd. I therefore, I alone first undertook To wing the desolate Abyss, and spie This new created World, whereof in Hell Fame is not silent, here in hope to find Better abode, and my afflicted Powers To settle here on Earth, or in mid Aire; Though for possession put to try once more What thou and thy gay Legions dare against; Whose easier business were to serve thir Lord High up in Heav'n, with songs to hymne his Throne, And practis'd distances to cringe, not fight. To whom the warriour Angel soon repli'd. To say and strait unsay, pretending first Wise to flie pain, professing next the Spie, Argues no Leader, but a lyar trac't, SATAN, and couldst thou faithful add? O name, O sacred name of faithfulness profan'd! Faithful to whom? to thy rebellious crew? Armie of Fiends, fit body to fit head; Was this your discipline and faith ingag'd, Your military obedience, to dissolve Allegeance to th' acknowledg'd Power supream? And thou sly hypocrite, who now wouldst seem Patron of liberty, who more then thou Once fawn'd, and cring'd, and servilly ador'd Heav'ns awful Monarch? wherefore but in hope To dispossess him, and thy self to reigne? But mark what I arreede thee now, avant; Flie thither whence thou fledst: if from this houre Within these hallowd limits thou appeer, Back to th' infernal pit I drag thee chaind, And Seale thee so, as henceforth not to scorne The facil gates of hell too slightly barrd. So threatn'd hee, but SATAN to no threats Gave heed, but waxing more in rage repli'd. Then when I am thy captive talk of chaines, Proud limitarie Cherube, but ere then Farr heavier load thy self expect to feel From my prevailing arme, though Heavens King Ride on thy wings, and thou with thy Compeers, Us'd to the yoak, draw'st his triumphant wheels In progress through the rode of Heav'n Star-pav'd. While thus he spake, th' Angelic Squadron bright Turnd fierie red, sharpning in mooned hornes Thir Phalanx, and began to hemm him round With ported Spears, as thick as when a field Of CERES ripe for harvest waving bends Her bearded Grove of ears, which way the wind Swayes them; the careful Plowman doubting stands Least on the threshing floore his hopeful sheaves Prove chaff. On th' other side SATAN allarm'd Collecting all his might dilated stood, Like TENERIFF or ATLAS unremov'd: His stature reacht the Skie, and on his Crest Sat horror Plum'd; nor wanted in his graspe What seemd both Spear and Shield: now dreadful deeds Might have ensu'd, nor onely Paradise In this commotion, but the Starrie Cope Of Heav'n perhaps, or all the Elements At least had gon to rack, disturbd and torne With violence of this conflict, had not soon Th' Eternal to prevent such horrid fray Hung forth in Heav'n his golden Scales, yet seen Betwixt ASTREA and the SCORPION signe, Wherein all things created first he weighd, The pendulous round Earth with ballanc't Aire In counterpoise, now ponders all events, Battels and Realms: in these he put two weights The sequel each of parting and of fight; The latter quick up flew, and kickt the beam; Which GABRIEL spying, thus bespake the Fiend. SATAN, I know thy strength, and thou knowst mine, Neither our own but giv'n; what follie then To boast what Arms can doe, since thine no more Then Heav'n permits, nor mine, though doubld now To trample thee as mire: for proof look up, And read thy Lot in yon celestial Sign Where thou art weigh'd, & shown how light, how weak, If thou resist. The Fiend lookt up and knew His mounted scale aloft: nor more; but fled Murmuring, and with him fled the shades of night. THE END OF THE FOURTH BOOK. PARADISE LOST BOOK V. Now Morn her rosie steps in th' Eastern Clime Advancing, sow'd the Earth with Orient Pearle, When ADAM wak't, so customd, for his sleep Was Aerie light, from pure digestion bred, And temperat vapors bland, which th' only sound Of leaves and fuming rills, AURORA's fan, Lightly dispers'd, and the shrill Matin Song Of Birds on every bough; so much the more His wonder was to find unwak'nd EVE With Tresses discompos'd, and glowing Cheek, As through unquiet rest: he on his side Leaning half-rais'd, with looks of cordial Love Hung over her enamour'd, and beheld Beautie, which whether waking or asleep, Shot forth peculiar Graces; then with voice Milde, as when ZEPHYRUS on FLORA breathes, Her hand soft touching, whisperd thus. Awake My fairest, my espous'd, my latest found, Heav'ns last best gift, my ever new delight, Awake, the morning shines, and the fresh field Calls us, we lose the prime, to mark how spring Our tended Plants, how blows the Citron Grove, What drops the Myrrhe, & what the balmie Reed, How Nature paints her colours, how the Bee Sits on the Bloom extracting liquid sweet. Such whispering wak'd her, but with startl'd eye On ADAM, whom imbracing, thus she spake. O Sole in whom my thoughts find all repose, My Glorie, my Perfection, glad I see Thy face, and Morn return'd, for I this Night, Such night till this I never pass'd, have dream'd, If dream'd, not as I oft am wont, of thee, Works of day pass't, or morrows next designe, But of offence and trouble, which my mind Knew never till this irksom night; methought Close at mine ear one call'd me forth to walk With gentle voice, I thought it thine; it said, Why sleepst thou EVE? now is the pleasant time, The cool, the silent, save where silence yields To the night-warbling Bird, that now awake Tunes sweetest his love-labor'd song; now reignes Full Orb'd the Moon, and with more pleasing light Shadowie sets off the face of things; in vain, If none regard; Heav'n wakes with all his eyes, Whom to behold but thee, Natures desire, In whose sight all things joy, with ravishment Attracted by thy beauty still to gaze. I rose as at thy call, but found thee not; To find thee I directed then my walk; And on, methought, alone I pass'd through ways That brought me on a sudden to the Tree Of interdicted Knowledge: fair it seem'd, Much fairer to my Fancie then by day: And as I wondring lookt, beside it stood One shap'd & wing'd like one of those from Heav'n By us oft seen; his dewie locks distill'd Ambrosia; on that Tree he also gaz'd; And O fair Plant, said he, with fruit surcharg'd, Deigns none to ease thy load and taste thy sweet, Nor God, nor Man; is Knowledge so despis'd? Or envie, or what reserve forbids to taste? Forbid who will, none shall from me withhold Longer thy offerd good, why else set here? This said he paus'd not, but with ventrous Arme He pluckt, he tasted; mee damp horror chil'd At such bold words voucht with a deed so bold: But he thus overjoy'd, O Fruit Divine, Sweet of thy self, but much more sweet thus cropt, Forbidd'n here, it seems, as onely fit For Gods, yet able to make Gods of Men: And why not Gods of Men, since good, the more Communicated, more abundant growes, The Author not impair'd, but honourd more? Here, happie Creature, fair Angelic EVE, Partake thou also; happie though thou art, Happier thou mayst be, worthier canst not be: Taste this, and be henceforth among the Gods Thy self a Goddess, not to Earth confind, But somtimes in the Air, as wee, somtimes Ascend to Heav'n, by merit thine, and see What life the Gods live there, and such live thou. So saying, he drew nigh, and to me held, Even to my mouth of that same fruit held part Which he had pluckt; the pleasant savourie smell So quick'nd appetite, that I, methought, Could not but taste. Forthwith up to the Clouds With him I flew, and underneath beheld The Earth outstretcht immense, a prospect wide And various: wondring at my flight and change To this high exaltation; suddenly My Guide was gon, and I, me thought, sunk down, And fell asleep; but O how glad I wak'd To find this but a dream! Thus EVE her Night Related, and thus ADAM answerd sad. Best Image of my self and dearer half, The trouble of thy thoughts this night in sleep Affects me equally; nor can I like This uncouth dream, of evil sprung I fear; Yet evil whence? in thee can harbour none, Created pure. But know that in the Soule Are many lesser Faculties that serve Reason as chief; among these Fansie next Her office holds; of all external things, Which the five watchful Senses represent, She forms Imaginations, Aerie shapes, Which Reason joyning or disjoyning, frames All what we affirm or what deny, and call Our knowledge or opinion; then retires Into her private Cell when Nature rests. Oft in her absence mimic Fansie wakes To imitate her; but misjoyning shapes, Wilde work produces oft, and most in dreams, Ill matching words and deeds long past or late. Som such resemblances methinks I find Of our last Eevnings talk, in this thy dream, But with addition strange; yet be not sad. Evil into the mind of God or Man May come and go, so unapprov'd, and leave No spot or blame behind: Which gives me hope That what in sleep thou didst abhorr to dream, Waking thou never wilt consent to do. Be not disheart'nd then, nor cloud those looks That wont to be more chearful and serene Then when fair Morning first smiles on the World, And let us to our fresh imployments rise Among the Groves, the Fountains, and the Flours That open now thir choicest bosom'd smells Reservd from night, and kept for thee in store. So cheard he his fair Spouse, and she was cheard, But silently a gentle tear let fall From either eye, and wip'd them with her haire; Two other precious drops that ready stood, Each in thir chrystal sluce, hee ere they fell Kiss'd as the gracious signs of sweet remorse And pious awe, that feard to have offended. So all was cleard, and to the Field they haste. But first from under shadie arborous roof, Soon as they forth were come to open sight Of day-spring, and the Sun, who scarce up risen With wheels yet hov'ring o're the Ocean brim, Shot paralel to the earth his dewie ray, Discovering in wide Lantskip all the East Of Paradise and EDENS happie Plains, Lowly they bow'd adoring, and began Thir Orisons, each Morning duly paid In various style, for neither various style Nor holy rapture wanted they to praise Thir Maker, in fit strains pronounc't or sung Unmeditated, such prompt eloquence Flowd from thir lips, in Prose or numerous Verse, More tuneable then needed Lute or Harp To add more sweetness, and they thus began. These are thy glorious works, Parent of good, Almightie, thine this universal Frame, Thus wondrous fair; thy self how wondrous then! Unspeakable, who sitst above these Heavens To us invisible or dimly seen In these thy lowest works, yet these declare Thy goodness beyond thought, and Power Divine: Speak yee who best can tell, ye Sons of light, Angels, for yee behold him, and with songs And choral symphonies, Day without Night, Circle his Throne rejoycing, yee in Heav'n, On Earth joyn all yee Creatures to extoll Him first, him last, him midst, and without end. Fairest of Starrs, last in the train of Night, If better thou belong not to the dawn, Sure pledge of day, that crownst the smiling Morn With thy bright Circlet, praise him in thy Spheare While day arises, that sweet hour of Prime. Thou Sun, of this great World both Eye and Soule, Acknowledge him thy Greater, sound his praise In thy eternal course, both when thou climb'st, And when high Noon hast gaind, & when thou fallst. Moon, that now meetst the orient Sun, now fli'st With the fixt Starrs, fixt in thir Orb that flies, And yee five other wandring Fires that move In mystic Dance not without Song, resound His praise, who out of Darkness call'd up Light. Aire, and ye Elements the eldest birth Of Natures Womb, that in quaternion run Perpetual Circle, multiform; and mix And nourish all things, let your ceasless change Varie to our great Maker still new praise. Ye Mists and Exhalations that now rise From Hill or steaming Lake, duskie or grey, Till the Sun paint your fleecie skirts with Gold, In honour to the Worlds great Author rise, Whether to deck with Clouds the uncolourd skie, Or wet the thirstie Earth with falling showers, Rising or falling still advance his praise. His praise ye Winds, that from four Quarters blow, Breath soft or loud; and wave your tops, ye Pines, With every Plant, in sign of Worship wave. Fountains and yee, that warble, as ye flow, Melodious murmurs, warbling tune his praise. Joyn voices all ye living Souls, ye Birds, That singing up to Heaven Gate ascend, Bear on your wings and in your notes his praise; Yee that in Waters glide, and yee that walk The Earth, and stately tread, or lowly creep; Witness if I be silent, Morn or Eeven, To Hill, or Valley, Fountain, or fresh shade Made vocal by my Song, and taught his praise. Hail universal Lord, be bounteous still To give us onely good; and if the night Have gathered aught of evil or conceald, Disperse it, as now light dispels the dark. So pray'd they innocent, and to thir thoughts Firm peace recoverd soon and wonted calm. On to thir mornings rural work they haste Among sweet dewes and flours; where any row Of Fruit-trees overwoodie reachd too farr Thir pamperd boughes, and needed hands to check Fruitless imbraces: or they led the Vine To wed her Elm; she spous'd about him twines Her mariageable arms, and with her brings Her dowr th' adopted Clusters, to adorn His barren leaves. Them thus imploid beheld With pittie Heav'ns high King, and to him call'd RAPHAEL, the sociable Spirit, that deign'd To travel with TOBIAS, and secur'd His marriage with the seaventimes-wedded Maid. RAPHAEL, said hee, thou hear'st what stir on Earth SATAN from Hell scap't through the darksom Gulf Hath raisd in Paradise, and how disturbd This night the human pair, how he designes In them at once to ruin all mankind. Go therefore, half this day as friend with friend Converse with ADAM, in what Bowre or shade Thou find'st him from the heat of Noon retir'd, To respit his day-labour with repast, Or with repose; and such discourse bring on, As may advise him of his happie state, Happiness in his power left free to will, Left to his own free Will, his Will though free, Yet mutable; whence warne him to beware He swerve not too secure: tell him withall His danger, and from whom, what enemie Late falln himself from Heav'n, is plotting now The fall of others from like state of bliss; By violence, no, for that shall be withstood, But by deceit and lies; this let him know, Least wilfully transgressing he pretend Surprisal, unadmonisht, unforewarnd. So spake th' Eternal Father, and fulfilld All Justice: nor delaid the winged Saint After his charge receivd, but from among Thousand Celestial Ardors, where he stood Vaild with his gorgeous wings, up springing light Flew through the midst of Heav'n; th' angelic Quires On each hand parting, to his speed gave way Through all th' Empyreal road; till at the Gate Of Heav'n arriv'd, the gate self-opend wide On golden Hinges turning, as by work Divine the sov'ran Architect had fram'd. From hence, no cloud, or, to obstruct his sight, Starr interpos'd, however small he sees, Not unconform to other shining Globes, Earth and the Gard'n of God, with Cedars crownd Above all Hills. As when by night the Glass Of GALILEO, less assur'd, observes Imagind Lands and Regions in the Moon: Or Pilot from amidst the CYCLADES DELOS or SAMOS first appeering kenns A cloudy spot. Down thither prone in flight He speeds, and through the vast Ethereal Skie Sailes between worlds & worlds, with steddie wing Now on the polar windes, then with quick Fann Winnows the buxom Air; till within soare Of Towring Eagles, to all the Fowles he seems A PHOENIX, gaz'd by all, as that sole Bird When to enshrine his reliques in the Sun's Bright Temple, to AEGYPTIAN THEB'S he flies. At once on th' Eastern cliff of Paradise He lights, and to his proper shape returns A Seraph wingd; six wings he wore, to shade His lineaments Divine; the pair that clad Each shoulder broad, came mantling o're his brest With regal Ornament; the middle pair Girt like a Starrie Zone his waste, and round Skirted his loines and thighes with downie Gold And colours dipt in Heav'n; the third his feet Shaddowd from either heele with featherd maile Skie-tinctur'd grain. Like MAIA'S son he stood, And shook his Plumes, that Heav'nly fragrance filld The circuit wide. Strait knew him all the bands Of Angels under watch; and to his state, And to his message high in honour rise; For on som message high they guessd him bound. Thir glittering Tents he passd, and now is come Into the blissful field, through Groves of Myrrhe, And flouring Odours, Cassia, Nard, and Balme; A Wilderness of sweets; for Nature here Wantond as in her prime, and plaid at will Her Virgin Fancies, pouring forth more sweet, Wilde above rule or art; enormous bliss. Him through the spicie Forrest onward com ADAM discernd, as in the dore he sat Of his coole Bowre, while now the mounted Sun Shot down direct his fervid Raies, to warme Earths inmost womb, more warmth then ADAM need; And EVE within, due at her hour prepar'd For dinner savourie fruits, of taste to please True appetite, and not disrelish thirst Of nectarous draughts between, from milkie stream, Berrie or Grape: to whom thus ADAM call'd. Haste hither EVE, and worth thy sight behold Eastward among those Trees, what glorious shape Comes this way moving; seems another Morn Ris'n on mid-noon; som great behest from Heav'n To us perhaps he brings, and will voutsafe This day to be our Guest. But goe with speed, And what thy stores contain, bring

shalt

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

walk With Heav'nly touch of instrumental sounds In full harmonic number joind, thir songs Divide the night, and lift our thoughts to Heaven. Thus talking hand in hand alone they pass'd On to thir blissful Bower; it was a place Chos'n by the sovran Planter, when he fram'd All things to mans delightful use; the roofe Of thickest covert was inwoven shade Laurel and Mirtle, and what higher grew Of firm and fragrant leaf; on either side ACANTHUS, and each odorous bushie shrub Fenc'd up the verdant wall; each beauteous flour, IRIS all hues, Roses, and Gessamin Rear'd high thir flourisht heads between, and wrought Mosaic; underfoot the Violet, Crocus, and Hyacinth with rich inlay Broiderd the ground, more colour'd then with stone Of costliest Emblem: other Creature here Beast, Bird, Insect, or Worm durst enter none; Such was thir awe of man. In shadier Bower More sacred and sequesterd, though but feignd, PAN or SILVANUS never slept, nor Nymph, Nor FAUNUS haunted. Here in close recess With Flowers, Garlands, and sweet-smelling Herbs Espoused EVE deckt first her Nuptial Bed, And heav'nly Quires the Hymenaean sung, What day the genial Angel to our Sire Brought her in naked beauty more adorn'd, More lovely then PANDORA, whom the Gods Endowd with all thir gifts, and O too like In sad event, when to the unwiser Son Of JAPHET brought by HERMES, she ensnar'd Mankind with her faire looks, to be aveng'd On him who had stole JOVES authentic fire. Thus at thir shadie Lodge arriv'd, both stood, Both turnd, and under op'n Skie ador'd The God that made both Skie, Air, Earth & Heav'n Which they beheld, the Moons resplendent Globe And starrie Pole: Thou also mad'st the Night, Maker Omnipotent, and thou the Day, Which we in our appointed work imployd Have finisht happie in our mutual help And mutual love, the Crown of all our bliss Ordain'd by thee, and this delicious place For us too large, where thy abundance wants Partakers, and uncropt falls to the ground. But thou hast promis'd from us two a Race To fill the Earth, who shall with us extoll Thy goodness infinite, both when we wake, And when we seek, as now, thy gift of sleep. This said unanimous, and other Rites Observing none, but adoration pure Which God likes best, into thir inmost bower Handed they went; and eas'd the putting off These troublesom disguises which wee wear, Strait side by side were laid, nor turnd I weene ADAM from his fair Spouse, nor EVE the Rites Mysterious of connubial Love refus'd: Whatever Hypocrites austerely talk Of puritie and place and innocence, Defaming as impure what God declares Pure, and commands to som, leaves free to all. Our Maker bids increase, who bids abstain But our Destroyer, foe to God and Man? Haile wedded Love, mysterious Law, true source Of human ofspring, sole proprietie, In Paradise of all things common else. By thee adulterous lust was driv'n from men Among the bestial herds to raunge, by thee Founded in Reason, Loyal, Just, and Pure, Relations dear, and all the Charities Of Father, Son, and Brother first were known. Farr be it, that I should write thee sin or blame, Or think thee unbefitting holiest place, Perpetual Fountain of Domestic sweets, Whose Bed is undefil'd and chast pronounc't, Present, or past, as Saints and Patriarchs us'd. Here Love his golden shafts imploies, here lights His constant Lamp, and waves his purple wings, Reigns here and revels; not in the bought smile Of Harlots, loveless, joyless, unindeard, Casual fruition, nor in Court Amours Mixt Dance, or wanton Mask, or Midnight Bal, Or Serenate, which the starv'd Lover sings To his proud fair, best quitted with disdain. These lulld by Nightingales imbraceing slept, And on thir naked limbs the flourie roof Showrd Roses, which the Morn repair'd. Sleep on, Blest pair; and O yet happiest if ye seek No happier state, and know to know no more. Now had night measur'd with her shaddowie Cone Half way up Hill this vast Sublunar Vault, And from thir Ivorie Port the Cherubim Forth issuing at th' accustomd hour stood armd To thir night watches in warlike Parade, When GABRIEL to his next in power thus spake. UZZIEL, half these draw off, and coast the South With strictest watch; these other wheel the North, Our circuit meets full West. As flame they part Half wheeling to the Shield, half to the Spear. From these, two strong and suttle Spirits he calld That neer him stood, and gave them thus in charge. ITHURIEL and ZEPHON, with wingd speed Search through this Garden, leav unsearcht no nook, But chiefly where those two fair Creatures Lodge, Now laid perhaps asleep secure of harme. This Eevning from the Sun's decline arriv'd Who tells of som infernal Spirit seen Hitherward bent (who could have thought?) escap'd The barrs of Hell, on errand bad no doubt: Such where ye find, seise fast, and hither bring. So saying, on he led his radiant Files, Daz'ling the Moon; these to the Bower direct In search of whom they sought: him there they found Squat like a Toad, close at the eare of EVE; Assaying by his Devilish art to reach The Organs of her Fancie, and with them forge Illusions as he list, Phantasms and Dreams, Or if, inspiring venom, he might taint Th' animal Spirits that from pure blood arise Like gentle breaths from Rivers pure, thence raise At least distemperd, discontented thoughts, Vain hopes, vain aimes, inordinate desires Blown up with high conceits ingendring pride. Him thus intent ITHURIEL with his Spear Touch'd lightly; for no falshood can endure Touch of Celestial temper, but returns Of force to its own likeness: up he starts Discoverd and surpriz'd. As when a spark Lights on a heap of nitrous Powder, laid Fit for the Tun som Magazin to store Against a rumord Warr, the Smuttie graine With sudden blaze diffus'd, inflames the Aire: So started up in his own shape the Fiend. Back stept those two fair Angels half amaz'd So sudden to behold the grieslie King; Yet thus, unmovd with fear, accost him soon. Which of those rebell Spirits adjudg'd to Hell Com'st thou, escap'd thy prison, and transform'd, Why satst thou like an enemie in waite Here watching at the head of these that sleep? Know ye not then said SATAN, filld with scorn, Know ye not me? ye knew me once no mate For you, there sitting where ye durst not soare; Not to know mee argues your selves unknown, The lowest of your throng; or if ye know, Why ask ye, and superfluous begin Your message, like to end as much in vain? To whom thus ZEPHON, answering scorn with scorn. Think not, revolted Spirit, thy shape the same, Or undiminisht brightness, to be known As when thou stoodst in Heav'n upright and pure; That Glorie then, when thou no more wast good, Departed from thee, and thou resembl'st now Thy sin and place of doom obscure and foule. But come, for thou, be sure, shalt give account To him who sent us, whose charge is to keep This place inviolable, and these from harm. So spake the Cherube, and his grave rebuke Severe in youthful beautie, added grace Invincible: abasht the Devil stood, And felt how awful goodness is, and saw Vertue in her shape how lovly, saw, and pin'd His loss; but chiefly to find here observd His lustre visibly impar'd; yet seemd Undaunted. If I must contend, said he, Best with the best, the Sender not the sent, Or all at once; more glorie will be wonn, Or less be lost. Thy fear, said ZEPHON bold, Will save us trial what the least can doe Single against thee wicked, and thence weak. The Fiend repli'd not, overcome with rage; But like a proud Steed reind, went hautie on, Chaumping his iron curb: to strive or flie He held it vain; awe from above had quelld His heart, not else dismai'd. Now drew they nigh The western point, where those half-rounding guards Just met, & closing stood in squadron joind Awaiting next command. To whom thir Chief GABRIEL from the Front thus calld aloud. O friends, I hear the tread of nimble feet Hasting this way, and now by glimps discerne ITHURIEL and ZEPHON through the shade, And with them comes a third of Regal port, But faded splendor wan; who by his gate And fierce demeanour seems the Prince of Hell, Not likely to part hence without contest; Stand firm, for in his look defiance lours. He scarce had ended, when those two approachd And brief related whom they brought, wher found, How busied, in what form and posture coucht. To whom with stern regard thus GABRIEL spake. Why hast thou, SATAN, broke the bounds prescrib'd To thy transgressions, and disturbd the charge Of others, who approve not to transgress By thy example, but have power and right To question thy bold entrance on this place; Imploi'd it seems to violate sleep, and those Whose dwelling God hath planted here in bliss? To whom thus SATAN with contemptuous brow. GABRIEL, thou hadst in Heav'n th' esteem of wise, And such I held thee; but this question askt Puts me in doubt. Lives ther who loves his pain? Who would not, finding way, break loose from Hell, Though thither doomd? Thou wouldst thy self, no doubt, And boldly venture to whatever place Farthest from pain, where thou mightst hope to change Torment with ease, & soonest recompence Dole with delight, which in this place I sought; To thee no reason; who knowst only good, But evil hast not tri'd: and wilt object His will who bound us? let him surer barr His Iron Gates, if he intends our stay In that dark durance: thus much what was askt. The rest is true, they found me where they say; But that implies not violence or harme. Thus hee in scorn. The warlike Angel mov'd, Disdainfully half smiling thus repli'd. O loss of one in Heav'n to judge of wise, Since SATAN fell, whom follie overthrew, And now returns him from his prison scap't, Gravely in doubt whether to hold them wise Or not, who ask what boldness brought him hither Unlicenc't from his bounds in Hell prescrib'd; So wise he judges it to fly from pain However, and to scape his punishment. So judge thou still, presumptuous, till the wrauth, Which thou incurr'st by flying, meet thy flight Seavenfold, and scourge that wisdom back to Hell, Which taught thee yet no better, that no pain Can equal anger infinite provok't. But wherefore thou alone? wherefore with thee Came not all Hell broke loose? is pain to them Less pain, less to be fled, or thou then they Less hardie to endure? courageous Chief, The first in flight from pain, had'st thou alleg'd To thy deserted host this cause of flight, Thou surely hadst not come sole fugitive. To which the Fiend thus answerd frowning stern. Not that I less endure, or shrink from pain, Insulting Angel, well thou knowst I stood Thy fiercest, when in Battel to thy aide The blasting volied Thunder made all speed And seconded thy else not dreaded Spear. But still thy words at random, as before, Argue thy inexperience what behooves From hard assaies and ill successes past A faithful Leader, not to hazard all Through wayes of danger by himself untri'd. I therefore, I alone first undertook To wing the desolate Abyss, and spie This new created World, whereof in Hell Fame is not silent, here in hope to find Better abode, and my afflicted Powers To settle here on Earth, or in mid Aire; Though for possession put to try once more What thou and thy gay Legions dare against; Whose easier business were to serve thir Lord High up in Heav'n, with songs to hymne his Throne, And practis'd distances to cringe, not fight. To whom the warriour Angel soon repli'd. To say and strait unsay, pretending first Wise to flie pain, professing next the Spie, Argues no Leader, but a lyar trac't, SATAN, and couldst thou faithful add? O name, O sacred name of faithfulness profan'd! Faithful to whom? to thy rebellious crew? Armie of Fiends, fit body to fit head; Was this your discipline and faith ingag'd, Your military obedience, to dissolve Allegeance to th' acknowledg'd Power supream? And thou sly hypocrite, who now wouldst seem Patron of liberty, who more then thou Once fawn'd, and cring'd, and servilly ador'd Heav'ns awful Monarch? wherefore but in hope To dispossess him, and thy self to reigne? But mark what I arreede thee now, avant; Flie thither whence thou fledst: if from this houre Within these hallowd limits thou appeer, Back to th' infernal pit I drag thee chaind, And Seale thee so, as henceforth not to scorne The facil gates of hell too slightly barrd. So threatn'd hee, but SATAN to no threats Gave heed, but waxing more in rage repli'd. Then when I am thy captive talk of chaines, Proud limitarie Cherube, but ere then Farr heavier load thy self expect to feel From my prevailing arme, though Heavens King Ride on thy wings, and thou with thy Compeers, Us'd to the yoak, draw'st his triumphant wheels In progress through the rode of Heav'n Star-pav'd. While thus he spake, th' Angelic Squadron bright Turnd fierie red, sharpning in mooned hornes Thir Phalanx, and began to hemm him round With ported Spears, as thick as when a field Of CERES ripe for harvest waving bends Her bearded Grove of ears, which way the wind Swayes them; the careful Plowman doubting stands Least on the threshing floore his hopeful sheaves Prove chaff. On th' other side SATAN allarm'd Collecting all his might dilated stood, Like TENERIFF or ATLAS unremov'd: His stature reacht the Skie, and on his Crest Sat horror Plum'd; nor wanted in his graspe What seemd both Spear and Shield: now dreadful deeds Might have ensu'd, nor onely Paradise In this commotion, but the Starrie Cope Of Heav'n perhaps, or all the Elements At least had gon to rack, disturbd and torne With violence of this conflict, had not soon Th' Eternal to prevent such horrid fray Hung forth in Heav'n his golden Scales, yet seen Betwixt ASTREA and the SCORPION signe, Wherein all things created first he weighd, The pendulous round Earth with ballanc't Aire In counterpoise, now ponders all events, Battels and Realms: in these he put two weights The sequel each of parting and of fight; The latter quick up flew, and kickt the beam; Which GABRIEL spying, thus bespake the Fiend. SATAN, I know thy strength, and thou knowst mine, Neither our own but giv'n; what follie then To boast what Arms can doe, since thine no more Then Heav'n permits, nor mine, though doubld now To trample thee as mire: for proof look up, And read thy Lot in yon celestial Sign Where thou art weigh'd, & shown how light, how weak, If thou resist. The Fiend lookt up and knew His mounted scale aloft: nor more; but fled Murmuring, and with him fled the shades of night. THE END OF THE FOURTH BOOK. PARADISE LOST BOOK V. Now Morn her rosie steps in th' Eastern Clime Advancing, sow'd the Earth with Orient Pearle, When ADAM wak't, so customd, for his sleep Was Aerie light, from pure digestion bred, And temperat vapors bland, which th' only sound Of leaves and fuming rills, AURORA's fan, Lightly dispers'd, and the shrill Matin Song Of Birds on every bough; so much the more His wonder was to find unwak'nd EVE With Tresses discompos'd, and glowing Cheek, As through unquiet rest: he on his side Leaning half-rais'd, with looks of cordial Love Hung over her enamour'd, and beheld Beautie, which whether waking or asleep, Shot forth peculiar Graces; then with voice Milde, as when ZEPHYRUS on FLORA breathes, Her hand soft touching, whisperd thus. Awake My fairest, my espous'd, my latest found, Heav'ns last best gift, my ever new delight, Awake, the morning shines, and the fresh field Calls us, we lose the prime, to mark how spring Our tended Plants, how blows the Citron Grove, What drops the Myrrhe, & what the balmie Reed, How Nature paints her colours, how the Bee Sits on the Bloom extracting liquid sweet. Such whispering wak'd her, but with startl'd eye On ADAM, whom imbracing, thus she spake. O Sole in whom my thoughts find all repose, My Glorie, my Perfection, glad I see Thy face, and Morn return'd, for I this Night, Such night till this I never pass'd, have dream'd, If dream'd, not as I oft am wont, of thee, Works of day pass't, or morrows next designe, But of offence and trouble, which my mind Knew never till this irksom night; methought Close at mine ear one call'd me forth to walk With gentle voice, I thought it thine; it said, Why sleepst thou EVE? now is the pleasant time, The cool, the silent, save where silence yields To the night-warbling Bird, that now awake Tunes sweetest his love-labor'd song; now reignes Full Orb'd the Moon, and with more pleasing light Shadowie sets off the face of things; in vain, If none regard; Heav'n wakes with all his eyes, Whom to behold but thee, Natures desire, In whose sight all things joy, with ravishment Attracted by thy beauty still to gaze. I rose as at thy call, but found thee not; To find thee I directed then my walk; And on, methought, alone I pass'd through ways That brought me on a sudden to the Tree Of interdicted Knowledge: fair it seem'd, Much fairer to my Fancie then by day: And as I wondring lookt, beside it stood One shap'd & wing'd like one of those from Heav'n By us oft seen; his dewie locks distill'd Ambrosia; on that Tree he also gaz'd; And O fair Plant, said he, with fruit surcharg'd, Deigns none to ease thy load and taste thy sweet, Nor God, nor Man; is Knowledge so despis'd? Or envie, or what reserve forbids to taste? Forbid who will, none shall from me withhold Longer thy offerd good, why else set here? This said he paus'd not, but with ventrous Arme He pluckt, he tasted; mee damp horror chil'd At such bold words voucht with a deed so bold: But he thus overjoy'd, O Fruit Divine, Sweet of thy self, but much more sweet thus cropt, Forbidd'n here, it seems, as onely fit For Gods, yet able to make Gods of Men: And why not Gods of Men, since good, the more Communicated, more abundant growes, The Author not impair'd, but honourd more? Here, happie Creature, fair Angelic EVE, Partake thou also; happie though thou art, Happier thou mayst be, worthier canst not be: Taste this, and be henceforth among the Gods Thy self a Goddess, not to Earth confind, But somtimes in the Air, as wee, somtimes Ascend to Heav'n, by merit thine, and see What life the Gods live there, and such live thou. So saying, he drew nigh, and to me held, Even to my mouth of that same fruit held part Which he had pluckt; the pleasant savourie smell So quick'nd appetite, that I, methought, Could not but taste. Forthwith up to the Clouds With him I flew, and underneath beheld The Earth outstretcht immense, a prospect wide And various: wondring at my flight and change To this high exaltation; suddenly My Guide was gon, and I, me thought, sunk down, And fell asleep; but O how glad I wak'd To find this but a dream! Thus EVE her Night Related, and thus ADAM answerd sad. Best Image of my self and dearer half, The trouble of thy thoughts this night in sleep Affects me equally; nor can I like This uncouth dream, of evil sprung I fear; Yet evil whence? in thee can harbour none, Created pure. But know that in the Soule Are many lesser Faculties that serve Reason as chief; among these Fansie next Her office holds; of all external things, Which the five watchful Senses represent, She forms Imaginations, Aerie shapes, Which Reason joyning or disjoyning, frames All what we affirm or what deny, and call Our knowledge or opinion; then retires Into her private Cell when Nature rests. Oft in her absence mimic Fansie wakes To imitate her; but misjoyning shapes, Wilde work produces oft, and most in dreams, Ill matching words and deeds long past or late. Som such resemblances methinks I find Of our last Eevnings talk, in this thy dream, But with addition strange; yet be not sad. Evil into the mind of God or Man May come and go, so unapprov'd, and leave No spot or blame behind: Which gives me hope That what in sleep thou didst abhorr to dream, Waking thou never wilt consent to do. Be not disheart'nd then, nor cloud those looks That wont to be more chearful and serene Then when fair Morning first smiles on the World, And let us to our fresh imployments rise Among the Groves, the Fountains, and the Flours That open now thir choicest bosom'd smells Reservd from night, and kept for thee in store. So cheard he his fair Spouse, and she was cheard, But silently a gentle tear let fall From either eye, and wip'd them with her haire; Two other precious drops that ready stood, Each in thir chrystal sluce, hee ere they fell Kiss'd as the gracious signs of sweet remorse And pious awe, that feard to have offended. So all was cleard, and to the Field they haste. But first from under shadie arborous roof, Soon as they forth were come to open sight Of day-spring, and the Sun, who scarce up risen With wheels yet hov'ring o're the Ocean brim, Shot paralel to the earth his dewie ray, Discovering in wide Lantskip all the East Of Paradise and EDENS happie Plains, Lowly they bow'd adoring, and began Thir Orisons, each Morning duly paid In various style, for neither various style Nor holy rapture wanted they to praise Thir Maker, in fit strains pronounc't or sung Unmeditated, such prompt eloquence Flowd from thir lips, in Prose or numerous Verse, More tuneable then needed Lute or Harp To add more sweetness, and they thus began. These are thy glorious works, Parent of good, Almightie, thine this universal Frame, Thus wondrous fair; thy self how wondrous then! Unspeakable, who sitst above these Heavens To us invisible or dimly seen In these thy lowest works, yet these declare Thy goodness beyond thought, and Power Divine: Speak yee who best can tell, ye Sons of light, Angels, for yee behold him, and with songs And choral symphonies, Day without Night, Circle his Throne rejoycing, yee in Heav'n, On Earth joyn all yee Creatures to extoll Him first, him last, him midst, and without end. Fairest of Starrs, last in the train of Night, If better thou belong not to the dawn, Sure pledge of day, that crownst the smiling Morn With thy bright Circlet, praise him in thy Spheare While day arises, that sweet hour of Prime. Thou Sun, of this great World both Eye and Soule, Acknowledge him thy Greater, sound his praise In thy eternal course, both when thou climb'st, And when high Noon hast gaind, & when thou fallst. Moon, that now meetst the orient Sun, now fli'st With the fixt Starrs, fixt in thir Orb that flies, And yee five other wandring Fires that move In mystic Dance not without Song, resound His praise, who out of Darkness call'd up Light. Aire, and ye Elements the eldest birth Of Natures Womb, that in quaternion run Perpetual Circle, multiform; and mix And nourish all things, let your ceasless change Varie to our great Maker still new praise. Ye Mists and Exhalations that now rise From Hill or steaming Lake, duskie or grey, Till the Sun paint your fleecie skirts with Gold, In honour to the Worlds great Author rise, Whether to deck with Clouds the uncolourd skie, Or wet the thirstie Earth with falling showers, Rising or falling still advance his praise. His praise ye Winds, that from four Quarters blow, Breath soft or loud; and wave your tops, ye Pines, With every Plant, in sign of Worship wave. Fountains and yee, that warble, as ye flow, Melodious murmurs, warbling tune his praise. Joyn voices all ye living Souls, ye Birds, That singing up to Heaven Gate ascend, Bear on your wings and in your notes his praise; Yee that in Waters glide, and yee that walk The Earth, and stately tread, or lowly creep; Witness if I be silent, Morn or Eeven, To Hill, or Valley, Fountain, or fresh shade Made vocal by my Song, and taught his praise. Hail universal Lord, be bounteous still To give us onely good; and if the night Have gathered aught of evil or conceald, Disperse it, as now light dispels the dark. So pray'd they innocent, and to thir thoughts Firm peace recoverd soon and wonted calm. On to thir mornings rural work they haste Among sweet dewes and flours; where any row Of Fruit-trees overwoodie reachd too farr Thir pamperd boughes, and needed hands to check Fruitless imbraces: or they led the Vine To wed her Elm; she spous'd about him twines Her mariageable arms, and with her brings Her dowr th' adopted Clusters, to adorn His barren leaves. Them thus imploid beheld With pittie Heav'ns high King, and to him call'd RAPHAEL, the sociable Spirit, that deign'd To travel with TOBIAS, and secur'd His marriage with the seaventimes-wedded Maid. RAPHAEL, said hee, thou hear'st what stir on Earth SATAN from Hell scap't through the darksom Gulf Hath raisd in Paradise, and how disturbd This night the human pair, how he designes In them at once to ruin all mankind. Go therefore, half this day as friend with friend Converse with ADAM, in what Bowre or shade Thou find'st him from the heat of Noon retir'd, To respit his day-labour with repast, Or with repose; and such discourse bring on, As may advise him of his happie state, Happiness in his power left free to will, Left to his own free Will, his Will though free, Yet mutable; whence warne him to beware He swerve not too secure: tell him withall His danger, and from whom, what enemie Late falln himself from Heav'n, is plotting now The fall of others from like state of bliss; By violence, no, for that shall be withstood, But by deceit and lies; this let him know, Least wilfully transgressing he pretend Surprisal, unadmonisht, unforewarnd. So spake th' Eternal Father, and fulfilld All Justice: nor delaid the winged Saint After his charge receivd, but from among Thousand Celestial Ardors, where he stood Vaild with his gorgeous wings, up springing light Flew through the midst of Heav'n; th' angelic Quires On each hand parting, to his speed gave way Through all th' Empyreal road; till at the Gate Of Heav'n arriv'd, the gate self-opend wide On golden Hinges turning, as by work Divine the sov'ran Architect had fram'd. From hence, no cloud, or, to obstruct his sight, Starr interpos'd, however small he sees, Not unconform to other shining Globes, Earth and the Gard'n of God, with Cedars crownd Above all Hills. As when by night the Glass Of GALILEO, less assur'd, observes Imagind Lands and Regions in the Moon: Or Pilot from amidst the CYCLADES DELOS or SAMOS first appeering kenns A cloudy spot. Down thither prone in flight He speeds, and through the vast Ethereal Skie Sailes between worlds & worlds, with steddie wing Now on the polar windes, then with quick Fann Winnows the buxom Air; till within soare Of Towring Eagles, to all the Fowles he seems A PHOENIX, gaz'd by all, as that sole Bird When to enshrine his reliques in the Sun's Bright Temple, to AEGYPTIAN THEB'S he flies. At once on th' Eastern cliff of Paradise He lights, and to his proper shape returns A Seraph wingd; six wings he wore, to shade His lineaments Divine; the pair that clad Each shoulder broad, came mantling o're his brest With regal Ornament; the middle pair Girt like a Starrie Zone his waste, and round Skirted his loines and thighes with downie Gold And colours dipt in Heav'n; the third his feet Shaddowd from either heele with featherd maile Skie-tinctur'd grain. Like MAIA'S son he stood, And shook his Plumes, that Heav'nly fragrance filld The circuit wide. Strait knew him all the bands Of Angels under watch; and to his state, And to his message high in honour rise; For on som message high they guessd him bound. Thir glittering Tents he passd, and now is come Into the blissful field, through Groves of Myrrhe, And flouring Odours, Cassia, Nard, and Balme; A Wilderness of sweets; for Nature here Wantond as in her prime, and plaid at will Her Virgin Fancies, pouring forth more sweet, Wilde above rule or art; enormous bliss. Him through the spicie Forrest onward com ADAM discernd, as in the dore he sat Of his coole Bowre, while now the mounted Sun Shot down direct his fervid Raies, to warme Earths inmost womb, more warmth then ADAM need; And EVE within, due at her hour prepar'd For dinner savourie fruits, of taste to please True appetite, and not disrelish thirst Of nectarous draughts between, from milkie stream, Berrie or Grape: to whom thus ADAM call'd. Haste hither EVE, and worth thy sight behold Eastward among those Trees, what glorious shape Comes this way moving; seems another Morn Ris'n on mid-noon; som great behest from Heav'n To us perhaps he brings, and will voutsafe This day to be our Guest. But goe with speed, And what thy stores contain, bring

heirs

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

walk With Heav'nly touch of instrumental sounds In full harmonic number joind, thir songs Divide the night, and lift our thoughts to Heaven. Thus talking hand in hand alone they pass'd On to thir blissful Bower; it was a place Chos'n by the sovran Planter, when he fram'd All things to mans delightful use; the roofe Of thickest covert was inwoven shade Laurel and Mirtle, and what higher grew Of firm and fragrant leaf; on either side ACANTHUS, and each odorous bushie shrub Fenc'd up the verdant wall; each beauteous flour, IRIS all hues, Roses, and Gessamin Rear'd high thir flourisht heads between, and wrought Mosaic; underfoot the Violet, Crocus, and Hyacinth with rich inlay Broiderd the ground, more colour'd then with stone Of costliest Emblem: other Creature here Beast, Bird, Insect, or Worm durst enter none; Such was thir awe of man. In shadier Bower More sacred and sequesterd, though but feignd, PAN or SILVANUS never slept, nor Nymph, Nor FAUNUS haunted. Here in close recess With Flowers, Garlands, and sweet-smelling Herbs Espoused EVE deckt first her Nuptial Bed, And heav'nly Quires the Hymenaean sung, What day the genial Angel to our Sire Brought her in naked beauty more adorn'd, More lovely then PANDORA, whom the Gods Endowd with all thir gifts, and O too like In sad event, when to the unwiser Son Of JAPHET brought by HERMES, she ensnar'd Mankind with her faire looks, to be aveng'd On him who had stole JOVES authentic fire. Thus at thir shadie Lodge arriv'd, both stood, Both turnd, and under op'n Skie ador'd The God that made both Skie, Air, Earth & Heav'n Which they beheld, the Moons resplendent Globe And starrie Pole: Thou also mad'st the Night, Maker Omnipotent, and thou the Day, Which we in our appointed work imployd Have finisht happie in our mutual help And mutual love, the Crown of all our bliss Ordain'd by thee, and this delicious place For us too large, where thy abundance wants Partakers, and uncropt falls to the ground. But thou hast promis'd from us two a Race To fill the Earth, who shall with us extoll Thy goodness infinite, both when we wake, And when we seek, as now, thy gift of sleep. This said unanimous, and other Rites Observing none, but adoration pure Which God likes best, into thir inmost bower Handed they went; and eas'd the putting off These troublesom disguises which wee wear, Strait side by side were laid, nor turnd I weene ADAM from his fair Spouse, nor EVE the Rites Mysterious of connubial Love refus'd: Whatever Hypocrites austerely talk Of puritie and place and innocence, Defaming as impure what God declares Pure, and commands to som, leaves free to all. Our Maker bids increase, who bids abstain But our Destroyer, foe to God and Man? Haile wedded Love, mysterious Law, true source Of human ofspring, sole proprietie, In Paradise of all things common else. By thee adulterous lust was driv'n from men Among the bestial herds to raunge, by thee Founded in Reason, Loyal, Just, and Pure, Relations dear, and all the Charities Of Father, Son, and Brother first were known. Farr be it, that I should write thee sin or blame, Or think thee unbefitting holiest place, Perpetual Fountain of Domestic sweets, Whose Bed is undefil'd and chast pronounc't, Present, or past, as Saints and Patriarchs us'd. Here Love his golden shafts imploies, here lights His constant Lamp, and waves his purple wings, Reigns here and revels; not in the bought smile Of Harlots, loveless, joyless, unindeard, Casual fruition, nor in Court Amours Mixt Dance, or wanton Mask, or Midnight Bal, Or Serenate, which the starv'd Lover sings To his proud fair, best quitted with disdain. These lulld by Nightingales imbraceing slept, And on thir naked limbs the flourie roof Showrd Roses, which the Morn repair'd. Sleep on, Blest pair; and O yet happiest if ye seek No happier state, and know to know no more. Now had night measur'd with her shaddowie Cone Half way up Hill this vast Sublunar Vault, And from thir Ivorie Port the Cherubim Forth issuing at th' accustomd hour stood armd To thir night watches in warlike Parade, When GABRIEL to his next in power thus spake. UZZIEL, half these draw off, and coast the South With strictest watch; these other wheel the North, Our circuit meets full West. As flame they part Half wheeling to the Shield, half to the Spear. From these, two strong and suttle Spirits he calld That neer him stood, and gave them thus in charge. ITHURIEL and ZEPHON, with wingd speed Search through this Garden, leav unsearcht no nook, But chiefly where those two fair Creatures Lodge, Now laid perhaps asleep secure of harme. This Eevning from the Sun's decline arriv'd Who tells of som infernal Spirit seen Hitherward bent (who could have thought?) escap'd The barrs of Hell, on errand bad no doubt: Such where ye find, seise fast, and hither bring. So saying, on he led his radiant Files, Daz'ling the Moon; these to the Bower direct In search of whom they sought: him there they found Squat like a Toad, close at the eare of EVE; Assaying by his Devilish art to reach The Organs of her Fancie, and with them forge Illusions as he list, Phantasms and Dreams, Or if, inspiring venom, he might taint Th' animal Spirits that from pure blood arise Like gentle breaths from Rivers pure, thence raise At least distemperd, discontented thoughts, Vain hopes, vain aimes, inordinate desires Blown up with high conceits ingendring pride. Him thus intent ITHURIEL with his Spear Touch'd lightly; for no falshood can endure Touch of Celestial temper, but returns Of force to its own likeness: up he starts Discoverd and surpriz'd. As when a spark Lights on a heap of nitrous Powder, laid Fit for the Tun som Magazin to store Against a rumord Warr, the Smuttie graine With sudden blaze diffus'd, inflames the Aire: So started up in his own shape the Fiend. Back stept those two fair Angels half amaz'd So sudden to behold the grieslie King; Yet thus, unmovd with fear, accost him soon. Which of those rebell Spirits adjudg'd to Hell Com'st thou, escap'd thy prison, and transform'd, Why satst thou like an enemie in waite Here watching at the head of these that sleep? Know ye not then said SATAN, filld with scorn, Know ye not me? ye knew me once no mate For you, there sitting where ye durst not soare; Not to know mee argues your selves unknown, The lowest of your throng; or if ye know, Why ask ye, and superfluous begin Your message, like to end as much in vain? To whom thus ZEPHON, answering scorn with scorn. Think not, revolted Spirit, thy shape the same, Or undiminisht brightness, to be known As when thou stoodst in Heav'n upright and pure; That Glorie then, when thou no more wast good, Departed from thee, and thou resembl'st now Thy sin and place of doom obscure and foule. But come, for thou, be sure, shalt give account To him who sent us, whose charge is to keep This place inviolable, and these from harm. So spake the Cherube, and his grave rebuke Severe in youthful beautie, added grace Invincible: abasht the Devil stood, And felt how awful goodness is, and saw Vertue in her shape how lovly, saw, and pin'd His loss; but chiefly to find here observd His lustre visibly impar'd; yet seemd Undaunted. If I must contend, said he, Best with the best, the Sender not the sent, Or all at once; more glorie will be wonn, Or less be lost. Thy fear, said ZEPHON bold, Will save us trial what the least can doe Single against thee wicked, and thence weak. The Fiend repli'd not, overcome with rage; But like a proud Steed reind, went hautie on, Chaumping his iron curb: to strive or flie He held it vain; awe from above had quelld His heart, not else dismai'd. Now drew they nigh The western point, where those half-rounding guards Just met, & closing stood in squadron joind Awaiting next command. To whom thir Chief GABRIEL from the Front thus calld aloud. O friends, I hear the tread of nimble feet Hasting this way, and now by glimps discerne ITHURIEL and ZEPHON through the shade, And with them comes a third of Regal port, But faded splendor wan; who by his gate And fierce demeanour seems the Prince of Hell, Not likely to part hence without contest; Stand firm, for in his look defiance lours. He scarce had ended, when those two approachd And brief related whom they brought, wher found, How busied, in what form and posture coucht. To whom with stern regard thus GABRIEL spake. Why hast thou, SATAN, broke the bounds prescrib'd To thy transgressions, and disturbd the charge Of others, who approve not to transgress By thy example, but have power and right To question thy bold entrance on this place; Imploi'd it seems to violate sleep, and those Whose dwelling God hath planted here in bliss? To whom thus SATAN with contemptuous brow. GABRIEL, thou hadst in Heav'n th' esteem of wise, And such I held thee; but this question askt Puts me in doubt. Lives ther who loves his pain? Who would not, finding way, break loose from Hell, Though thither doomd? Thou wouldst thy self, no doubt, And boldly venture to whatever place Farthest from pain, where thou mightst hope to change Torment with ease, & soonest recompence Dole with delight, which in this place I sought; To thee no reason; who knowst only good, But evil hast not tri'd: and wilt object His will who bound us? let him surer barr His Iron Gates, if he intends our stay In that dark durance: thus much what was askt. The rest is true, they found me where they say; But that implies not violence or harme. Thus hee in scorn. The warlike Angel mov'd, Disdainfully half smiling thus repli'd. O loss of one in Heav'n to judge of wise, Since SATAN fell, whom follie overthrew, And now returns him from his prison scap't, Gravely in doubt whether to hold them wise Or not, who ask what boldness brought him hither Unlicenc't from his bounds in Hell prescrib'd; So wise he judges it to fly from pain However, and to scape his punishment. So judge thou still, presumptuous, till the wrauth, Which thou incurr'st by flying, meet thy flight Seavenfold, and scourge that wisdom back to Hell, Which taught thee yet no better, that no pain Can equal anger infinite provok't. But wherefore thou alone? wherefore with thee Came not all Hell broke loose? is pain to them Less pain, less to be fled, or thou then they Less hardie to endure? courageous Chief, The first in flight from pain, had'st thou alleg'd To thy deserted host this cause of flight, Thou surely hadst not come sole fugitive. To which the Fiend thus answerd frowning stern. Not that I less endure, or shrink from pain, Insulting Angel, well thou knowst I stood Thy fiercest, when in Battel to thy aide The blasting volied Thunder made all speed And seconded thy else not dreaded Spear. But still thy words at random, as before, Argue thy inexperience what behooves From hard assaies and ill successes past A faithful Leader, not to hazard all Through wayes of danger by himself untri'd. I therefore, I alone first undertook To wing the desolate Abyss, and spie This new created World, whereof in Hell Fame is not silent, here in hope to find Better abode, and my afflicted Powers To settle here on Earth, or in mid Aire; Though for possession put to try once more What thou and thy gay Legions dare against; Whose easier business were to serve thir Lord High up in Heav'n, with songs to hymne his Throne, And practis'd distances to cringe, not fight. To whom the warriour Angel soon repli'd. To say and strait unsay, pretending first Wise to flie pain, professing next the Spie, Argues no Leader, but a lyar trac't, SATAN, and couldst thou faithful add? O name, O sacred name of faithfulness profan'd! Faithful to whom? to thy rebellious crew? Armie of Fiends, fit body to fit head; Was this your discipline and faith ingag'd, Your military obedience, to dissolve Allegeance to th' acknowledg'd Power supream? And thou sly hypocrite, who now wouldst seem Patron of liberty, who more then thou Once fawn'd, and cring'd, and servilly ador'd Heav'ns awful Monarch? wherefore but in hope To dispossess him, and thy self to reigne? But mark what I arreede thee now, avant; Flie thither whence thou fledst: if from this houre Within these hallowd limits thou appeer, Back to th' infernal pit I drag thee chaind, And Seale thee so, as henceforth not to scorne The facil gates of hell too slightly barrd. So threatn'd hee, but SATAN to no threats Gave heed, but waxing more in rage repli'd. Then when I am thy captive talk of chaines, Proud limitarie Cherube, but ere then Farr heavier load thy self expect to feel From my prevailing arme, though Heavens King Ride on thy wings, and thou with thy Compeers, Us'd to the yoak, draw'st his triumphant wheels In progress through the rode of Heav'n Star-pav'd. While thus he spake, th' Angelic Squadron bright Turnd fierie red, sharpning in mooned hornes Thir Phalanx, and began to hemm him round With ported Spears, as thick as when a field Of CERES ripe for harvest waving bends Her bearded Grove of ears, which way the wind Swayes them; the careful Plowman doubting stands Least on the threshing floore his hopeful sheaves Prove chaff. On th' other side SATAN allarm'd Collecting all his might dilated stood, Like TENERIFF or ATLAS unremov'd: His stature reacht the Skie, and on his Crest Sat horror Plum'd; nor wanted in his graspe What seemd both Spear and Shield: now dreadful deeds Might have ensu'd, nor onely Paradise In this commotion, but the Starrie Cope Of Heav'n perhaps, or all the Elements At least had gon to rack, disturbd and torne With violence of this conflict, had not soon Th' Eternal to prevent such horrid fray Hung forth in Heav'n his golden Scales, yet seen Betwixt ASTREA and the SCORPION signe, Wherein all things created first he weighd, The pendulous round Earth with ballanc't Aire In counterpoise, now ponders all events, Battels and Realms: in these he put two weights The sequel each of parting and of fight; The latter quick up flew, and kickt the beam; Which GABRIEL spying, thus bespake the Fiend. SATAN, I know thy strength, and thou knowst mine, Neither our own but giv'n; what follie then To boast what Arms can doe, since thine no more Then Heav'n permits, nor mine, though doubld now To trample thee as mire: for proof look up, And read thy Lot in yon celestial Sign Where thou art weigh'd, & shown how light, how weak, If thou resist. The Fiend lookt up and knew His mounted scale aloft: nor more; but fled Murmuring, and with him fled the shades of night. THE END OF THE FOURTH BOOK. PARADISE LOST BOOK V. Now Morn her rosie steps in th' Eastern Clime Advancing, sow'd the Earth with Orient Pearle, When ADAM wak't, so customd, for his sleep Was Aerie light, from pure digestion bred, And temperat vapors bland, which th' only sound Of leaves and fuming rills, AURORA's fan, Lightly dispers'd, and the shrill Matin Song Of Birds on every bough; so much the more His wonder was to find unwak'nd EVE With Tresses discompos'd, and glowing Cheek, As through unquiet rest: he on his side Leaning half-rais'd, with looks of cordial Love Hung over her enamour'd, and beheld Beautie, which whether waking or asleep, Shot forth peculiar Graces; then with voice Milde, as when ZEPHYRUS on FLORA breathes, Her hand soft touching, whisperd thus. Awake My fairest, my espous'd, my latest found, Heav'ns last best gift, my ever new delight, Awake, the morning shines, and the fresh field Calls us, we lose the prime, to mark how spring Our tended Plants, how blows the Citron Grove, What drops the Myrrhe, & what the balmie Reed, How Nature paints her colours, how the Bee Sits on the Bloom extracting liquid sweet. Such whispering wak'd her, but with startl'd eye On ADAM, whom imbracing, thus she spake. O Sole in whom my thoughts find all repose, My Glorie, my Perfection, glad I see Thy face, and Morn return'd, for I this Night, Such night till this I never pass'd, have dream'd, If dream'd, not as I oft am wont, of thee, Works of day pass't, or morrows next designe, But of offence and trouble, which my mind Knew never till this irksom night; methought Close at mine ear one call'd me forth to walk With gentle voice, I thought it thine; it said, Why sleepst thou EVE? now is the pleasant time, The cool, the silent, save where silence yields To the night-warbling Bird, that now awake Tunes sweetest his love-labor'd song; now reignes Full Orb'd the Moon, and with more pleasing light Shadowie sets off the face of things; in vain, If none regard; Heav'n wakes with all his eyes, Whom to behold but thee, Natures desire, In whose sight all things joy, with ravishment Attracted by thy beauty still to gaze. I rose as at thy call, but found thee not; To find thee I directed then my walk; And on, methought, alone I pass'd through ways That brought me on a sudden to the Tree Of interdicted Knowledge: fair it seem'd, Much fairer to my Fancie then by day: And as I wondring lookt, beside it stood One shap'd & wing'd like one of those from Heav'n By us oft seen; his dewie locks distill'd Ambrosia; on that Tree he also gaz'd; And O fair Plant, said he, with fruit surcharg'd, Deigns none to ease thy load and taste thy sweet, Nor God, nor Man; is Knowledge so despis'd? Or envie, or what reserve forbids to taste? Forbid who will, none shall from me withhold Longer thy offerd good, why else set here? This said he paus'd not, but with ventrous Arme He pluckt, he tasted; mee damp horror chil'd At such bold words voucht with a deed so bold: But he thus overjoy'd, O Fruit Divine, Sweet of thy self, but much more sweet thus cropt, Forbidd'n here, it seems, as onely fit For Gods, yet able to make Gods of Men: And why not Gods of Men, since good, the more Communicated, more abundant growes, The Author not impair'd, but honourd more? Here, happie Creature, fair Angelic EVE, Partake thou also; happie though thou art, Happier thou mayst be, worthier canst not be: Taste this, and be henceforth among the Gods Thy self a Goddess, not to Earth confind, But somtimes in the Air, as wee, somtimes Ascend to Heav'n, by merit thine, and see What life the Gods live there, and such live thou. So saying, he drew nigh, and to me held, Even to my mouth of that same fruit held part Which he had pluckt; the pleasant savourie smell So quick'nd appetite, that I, methought, Could not but taste. Forthwith up to the Clouds With him I flew, and underneath beheld The Earth outstretcht immense, a prospect wide And various: wondring at my flight and change To this high exaltation; suddenly My Guide was gon, and I, me thought, sunk down, And fell asleep; but O how glad I wak'd To find this but a dream! Thus EVE her Night Related, and thus ADAM answerd sad. Best Image of my self and dearer half, The trouble of thy thoughts this night in sleep Affects me equally; nor can I like This uncouth dream, of evil sprung I fear; Yet evil whence? in thee can harbour none, Created pure. But know that in the Soule Are many lesser Faculties that serve Reason as chief; among these Fansie next Her office holds; of all external things, Which the five watchful Senses represent, She forms Imaginations, Aerie shapes, Which Reason joyning or disjoyning, frames All what we affirm or what deny, and call Our knowledge or opinion; then retires Into her private Cell when Nature rests. Oft in her absence mimic Fansie wakes To imitate her; but misjoyning shapes, Wilde work produces oft, and most in dreams, Ill matching words and deeds long past or late. Som such resemblances methinks I find Of our last Eevnings talk, in this thy dream, But with addition strange; yet be not sad. Evil into the mind of God or Man May come and go, so unapprov'd, and leave No spot or blame behind: Which gives me hope That what in sleep thou didst abhorr to dream, Waking thou never wilt consent to do. Be not disheart'nd then, nor cloud those looks That wont to be more chearful and serene Then when fair Morning first smiles on the World, And let us to our fresh imployments rise Among the Groves, the Fountains, and the Flours That open now thir choicest bosom'd smells Reservd from night, and kept for thee in store. So cheard he his fair Spouse, and she was cheard, But silently a gentle tear let fall From either eye, and wip'd them with her haire; Two other precious drops that ready stood, Each in thir chrystal sluce, hee ere they fell Kiss'd as the gracious signs of sweet remorse And pious awe, that feard to have offended. So all was cleard, and to the Field they haste. But first from under shadie arborous roof, Soon as they forth were come to open sight Of day-spring, and the Sun, who scarce up risen With wheels yet hov'ring o're the Ocean brim, Shot paralel to the earth his dewie ray, Discovering in wide Lantskip all the East Of Paradise and EDENS happie Plains, Lowly they bow'd adoring, and began Thir Orisons, each Morning duly paid In various style, for neither various style Nor holy rapture wanted they to praise Thir Maker, in fit strains pronounc't or sung Unmeditated, such prompt eloquence Flowd from thir lips, in Prose or numerous Verse, More tuneable then needed Lute or Harp To add more sweetness, and they thus began. These are thy glorious works, Parent of good, Almightie, thine this universal Frame, Thus wondrous fair; thy self how wondrous then! Unspeakable, who sitst above these Heavens To us invisible or dimly seen In these thy lowest works, yet these declare Thy goodness beyond thought, and Power Divine: Speak yee who best can tell, ye Sons of light, Angels, for yee behold him, and with songs And choral symphonies, Day without Night, Circle his Throne rejoycing, yee in Heav'n, On Earth joyn all yee Creatures to extoll Him first, him last, him midst, and without end. Fairest of Starrs, last in the train of Night, If better thou belong not to the dawn, Sure pledge of day, that crownst the smiling Morn With thy bright Circlet, praise him in thy Spheare While day arises, that sweet hour of Prime. Thou Sun, of this great World both Eye and Soule, Acknowledge him thy Greater, sound his praise In thy eternal course, both when thou climb'st, And when high Noon hast gaind, & when thou fallst. Moon, that now meetst the orient Sun, now fli'st With the fixt Starrs, fixt in thir Orb that flies, And yee five other wandring Fires that move In mystic Dance not without Song, resound His praise, who out of Darkness call'd up Light. Aire, and ye Elements the eldest birth Of Natures Womb, that in quaternion run Perpetual Circle, multiform; and mix And nourish all things, let your ceasless change Varie to our great Maker still new praise. Ye Mists and Exhalations that now rise From Hill or steaming Lake, duskie or grey, Till the Sun paint your fleecie skirts with Gold, In honour to the Worlds great Author rise, Whether to deck with Clouds the uncolourd skie, Or wet the thirstie Earth with falling showers, Rising or falling still advance his praise. His praise ye Winds, that from four Quarters blow, Breath soft or loud; and wave your tops, ye Pines, With every Plant, in sign of Worship wave. Fountains and yee, that warble, as ye flow, Melodious murmurs, warbling tune his praise. Joyn voices all ye living Souls, ye Birds, That singing up to Heaven Gate ascend, Bear on your wings and in your notes his praise; Yee that in Waters glide, and yee that walk The Earth, and stately tread, or lowly creep; Witness if I be silent, Morn or Eeven, To Hill, or Valley, Fountain, or fresh shade Made vocal by my Song, and taught his praise. Hail universal Lord, be bounteous still To give us onely good; and if the night Have gathered aught of evil or conceald, Disperse it, as now light dispels the dark. So pray'd they innocent, and to thir thoughts Firm peace recoverd soon and wonted calm. On to thir mornings rural work they haste Among sweet dewes and flours; where any row Of Fruit-trees overwoodie reachd too farr Thir pamperd boughes, and needed hands to check Fruitless imbraces: or they led the Vine To wed her Elm; she spous'd about him twines Her mariageable arms, and with her brings Her dowr th' adopted Clusters, to adorn His barren leaves. Them thus imploid beheld With pittie Heav'ns high King, and to him call'd RAPHAEL, the sociable Spirit, that deign'd To travel with TOBIAS, and secur'd His marriage with the seaventimes-wedded Maid. RAPHAEL, said hee, thou hear'st what stir on Earth SATAN from Hell scap't through the darksom Gulf Hath raisd in Paradise, and how disturbd This night the human pair, how he designes In them at once to ruin all mankind. Go therefore, half this day as friend with friend Converse with ADAM, in what Bowre or shade Thou find'st him from the heat of Noon retir'd, To respit his day-labour with repast, Or with repose; and such discourse bring on, As may advise him of his happie state, Happiness in his power left free to will, Left to his own free Will, his Will though free, Yet mutable; whence warne him to beware He swerve not too secure: tell him withall His danger, and from whom, what enemie Late falln himself from Heav'n, is plotting now The fall of others from like state of bliss; By violence, no, for that shall be withstood, But by deceit and lies; this let him know, Least wilfully transgressing he pretend Surprisal, unadmonisht, unforewarnd. So spake th' Eternal Father, and fulfilld All Justice: nor delaid the winged Saint After his charge receivd, but from among Thousand Celestial Ardors, where he stood Vaild with his gorgeous wings, up springing light Flew through the midst of Heav'n; th' angelic Quires On each hand parting, to his speed gave way Through all th' Empyreal road; till at the Gate Of Heav'n arriv'd, the gate self-opend wide On golden Hinges turning, as by work Divine the sov'ran Architect had fram'd. From hence, no cloud, or, to obstruct his sight, Starr interpos'd, however small he sees, Not unconform to other shining Globes, Earth and the Gard'n of God, with Cedars crownd Above all Hills. As when by night the Glass Of GALILEO, less assur'd, observes Imagind Lands and Regions in the Moon: Or Pilot from amidst the CYCLADES DELOS or SAMOS first appeering kenns A cloudy spot. Down thither prone in flight He speeds, and through the vast Ethereal Skie Sailes between worlds & worlds, with steddie wing Now on the polar windes, then with quick Fann Winnows the buxom Air; till within soare Of Towring Eagles, to all the Fowles he seems A PHOENIX, gaz'd by all, as that sole Bird When to enshrine his reliques in the Sun's Bright Temple, to AEGYPTIAN THEB'S he flies. At once on th' Eastern cliff of Paradise He lights, and to his proper shape returns A Seraph wingd; six wings he wore, to shade His lineaments Divine; the pair that clad Each shoulder broad, came mantling o're his brest With regal Ornament; the middle pair Girt like a Starrie Zone his waste, and round Skirted his loines and thighes with downie Gold And colours dipt in Heav'n; the third his feet Shaddowd from either heele with featherd maile Skie-tinctur'd grain. Like MAIA'S son he stood, And shook his Plumes, that Heav'nly fragrance filld The circuit wide. Strait knew him all the bands Of Angels under watch; and to his state, And to his message high in honour rise; For on som message high they guessd him bound. Thir glittering Tents he passd, and now is come Into the blissful field, through Groves of Myrrhe, And flouring Odours, Cassia, Nard, and Balme; A Wilderness of sweets; for Nature here Wantond as in her prime, and plaid at will Her Virgin Fancies, pouring forth more sweet, Wilde above rule or art; enormous bliss. Him through the spicie Forrest onward com ADAM discernd, as in the dore he sat Of his coole Bowre, while now the mounted Sun Shot down direct his fervid Raies, to warme Earths inmost womb, more warmth then ADAM need; And EVE within, due at her hour prepar'd For dinner savourie fruits, of taste to please True appetite, and not disrelish thirst Of nectarous draughts between, from milkie stream, Berrie or Grape: to whom thus ADAM call'd. Haste hither EVE, and worth thy sight behold Eastward among those Trees, what glorious shape Comes this way moving; seems another Morn Ris'n on mid-noon; som great behest from Heav'n To us perhaps he brings, and will voutsafe This day to be our Guest. But goe with speed, And what thy stores contain, bring

flyers

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

walk With Heav'nly touch of instrumental sounds In full harmonic number joind, thir songs Divide the night, and lift our thoughts to Heaven. Thus talking hand in hand alone they pass'd On to thir blissful Bower; it was a place Chos'n by the sovran Planter, when he fram'd All things to mans delightful use; the roofe Of thickest covert was inwoven shade Laurel and Mirtle, and what higher grew Of firm and fragrant leaf; on either side ACANTHUS, and each odorous bushie shrub Fenc'd up the verdant wall; each beauteous flour, IRIS all hues, Roses, and Gessamin Rear'd high thir flourisht heads between, and wrought Mosaic; underfoot the Violet, Crocus, and Hyacinth with rich inlay Broiderd the ground, more colour'd then with stone Of costliest Emblem: other Creature here Beast, Bird, Insect, or Worm durst enter none; Such was thir awe of man. In shadier Bower More sacred and sequesterd, though but feignd, PAN or SILVANUS never slept, nor Nymph, Nor FAUNUS haunted. Here in close recess With Flowers, Garlands, and sweet-smelling Herbs Espoused EVE deckt first her Nuptial Bed, And heav'nly Quires the Hymenaean sung, What day the genial Angel to our Sire Brought her in naked beauty more adorn'd, More lovely then PANDORA, whom the Gods Endowd with all thir gifts, and O too like In sad event, when to the unwiser Son Of JAPHET brought by HERMES, she ensnar'd Mankind with her faire looks, to be aveng'd On him who had stole JOVES authentic fire. Thus at thir shadie Lodge arriv'd, both stood, Both turnd, and under op'n Skie ador'd The God that made both Skie, Air, Earth & Heav'n Which they beheld, the Moons resplendent Globe And starrie Pole: Thou also mad'st the Night, Maker Omnipotent, and thou the Day, Which we in our appointed work imployd Have finisht happie in our mutual help And mutual love, the Crown of all our bliss Ordain'd by thee, and this delicious place For us too large, where thy abundance wants Partakers, and uncropt falls to the ground. But thou hast promis'd from us two a Race To fill the Earth, who shall with us extoll Thy goodness infinite, both when we wake, And when we seek, as now, thy gift of sleep. This said unanimous, and other Rites Observing none, but adoration pure Which God likes best, into thir inmost bower Handed they went; and eas'd the putting off These troublesom disguises which wee wear, Strait side by side were laid, nor turnd I weene ADAM from his fair Spouse, nor EVE the Rites Mysterious of connubial Love refus'd: Whatever Hypocrites austerely talk Of puritie and place and innocence, Defaming as impure what God declares Pure, and commands to som, leaves free to all. Our Maker bids increase, who bids abstain But our Destroyer, foe to God and Man? Haile wedded Love, mysterious Law, true source Of human ofspring, sole proprietie, In Paradise of all things common else. By thee adulterous lust was driv'n from men Among the bestial herds to raunge, by thee Founded in Reason, Loyal, Just, and Pure, Relations dear, and all the Charities Of Father, Son, and Brother first were known. Farr be it, that I should write thee sin or blame, Or think thee unbefitting holiest place, Perpetual Fountain of Domestic sweets, Whose Bed is undefil'd and chast pronounc't, Present, or past, as Saints and Patriarchs us'd. Here Love his golden shafts imploies, here lights His constant Lamp, and waves his purple wings, Reigns here and revels; not in the bought smile Of Harlots, loveless, joyless, unindeard, Casual fruition, nor in Court Amours Mixt Dance, or wanton Mask, or Midnight Bal, Or Serenate, which the starv'd Lover sings To his proud fair, best quitted with disdain. These lulld by Nightingales imbraceing slept, And on thir naked limbs the flourie roof Showrd Roses, which the Morn repair'd. Sleep on, Blest pair; and O yet happiest if ye seek No happier state, and know to know no more. Now had night measur'd with her shaddowie Cone Half way up Hill this vast Sublunar Vault, And from thir Ivorie Port the Cherubim Forth issuing at th' accustomd hour stood armd To thir night watches in warlike Parade, When GABRIEL to his next in power thus spake. UZZIEL, half these draw off, and coast the South With strictest watch; these other wheel the North, Our circuit meets full West. As flame they part Half wheeling to the Shield, half to the Spear. From these, two strong and suttle Spirits he calld That neer him stood, and gave them thus in charge. ITHURIEL and ZEPHON, with wingd speed Search through this Garden, leav unsearcht no nook, But chiefly where those two fair Creatures Lodge, Now laid perhaps asleep secure of harme. This Eevning from the Sun's decline arriv'd Who tells of som infernal Spirit seen Hitherward bent (who could have thought?) escap'd The barrs of Hell, on errand bad no doubt: Such where ye find, seise fast, and hither bring. So saying, on he led his radiant Files, Daz'ling the Moon; these to the Bower direct In search of whom they sought: him there they found Squat like a Toad, close at the eare of EVE; Assaying by his Devilish art to reach The Organs of her Fancie, and with them forge Illusions as he list, Phantasms and Dreams, Or if, inspiring venom, he might taint Th' animal Spirits that from pure blood arise Like gentle breaths from Rivers pure, thence raise At least distemperd, discontented thoughts, Vain hopes, vain aimes, inordinate desires Blown up with high conceits ingendring pride. Him thus intent ITHURIEL with his Spear Touch'd lightly; for no falshood can endure Touch of Celestial temper, but returns Of force to its own likeness: up he starts Discoverd and surpriz'd. As when a spark Lights on a heap of nitrous Powder, laid Fit for the Tun som Magazin to store Against a rumord Warr, the Smuttie graine With sudden blaze diffus'd, inflames the Aire: So started up in his own shape the Fiend. Back stept those two fair Angels half amaz'd So sudden to behold the grieslie King; Yet thus, unmovd with fear, accost him soon. Which of those rebell Spirits adjudg'd to Hell Com'st thou, escap'd thy prison, and transform'd, Why satst thou like an enemie in waite Here watching at the head of these that sleep? Know ye not then said SATAN, filld with scorn, Know ye not me? ye knew me once no mate For you, there sitting where ye durst not soare; Not to know mee argues your selves unknown, The lowest of your throng; or if ye know, Why ask ye, and superfluous begin Your message, like to end as much in vain? To whom thus ZEPHON, answering scorn with scorn. Think not, revolted Spirit, thy shape the same, Or undiminisht brightness, to be known As when thou stoodst in Heav'n upright and pure; That Glorie then, when thou no more wast good, Departed from thee, and thou resembl'st now Thy sin and place of doom obscure and foule. But come, for thou, be sure, shalt give account To him who sent us, whose charge is to keep This place inviolable, and these from harm. So spake the Cherube, and his grave rebuke Severe in youthful beautie, added grace Invincible: abasht the Devil stood, And felt how awful goodness is, and saw Vertue in her shape how lovly, saw, and pin'd His loss; but chiefly to find here observd His lustre visibly impar'd; yet seemd Undaunted. If I must contend, said he, Best with the best, the Sender not the sent, Or all at once; more glorie will be wonn, Or less be lost. Thy fear, said ZEPHON bold, Will save us trial what the least can doe Single against thee wicked, and thence weak. The Fiend repli'd not, overcome with rage; But like a proud Steed reind, went hautie on, Chaumping his iron curb: to strive or flie He held it vain; awe from above had quelld His heart, not else dismai'd. Now drew they nigh The western point, where those half-rounding guards Just met, & closing stood in squadron joind Awaiting next command. To whom thir Chief GABRIEL from the Front thus calld aloud. O friends, I hear the tread of nimble feet Hasting this way, and now by glimps discerne ITHURIEL and ZEPHON through the shade, And with them comes a third of Regal port, But faded splendor wan; who by his gate And fierce demeanour seems the Prince of Hell, Not likely to part hence without contest; Stand firm, for in his look defiance lours. He scarce had ended, when those two approachd And brief related whom they brought, wher found, How busied, in what form and posture coucht. To whom with stern regard thus GABRIEL spake. Why hast thou, SATAN, broke the bounds prescrib'd To thy transgressions, and disturbd the charge Of others, who approve not to transgress By thy example, but have power and right To question thy bold entrance on this place; Imploi'd it seems to violate sleep, and those Whose dwelling God hath planted here in bliss? To whom thus SATAN with contemptuous brow. GABRIEL, thou hadst in Heav'n th' esteem of wise, And such I held thee; but this question askt Puts me in doubt. Lives ther who loves his pain? Who would not, finding way, break loose from Hell, Though thither doomd? Thou wouldst thy self, no doubt, And boldly venture to whatever place Farthest from pain, where thou mightst hope to change Torment with ease, & soonest recompence Dole with delight, which in this place I sought; To thee no reason; who knowst only good, But evil hast not tri'd: and wilt object His will who bound us? let him surer barr His Iron Gates, if he intends our stay In that dark durance: thus much what was askt. The rest is true, they found me where they say; But that implies not violence or harme. Thus hee in scorn. The warlike Angel mov'd, Disdainfully half smiling thus repli'd. O loss of one in Heav'n to judge of wise, Since SATAN fell, whom follie overthrew, And now returns him from his prison scap't, Gravely in doubt whether to hold them wise Or not, who ask what boldness brought him hither Unlicenc't from his bounds in Hell prescrib'd; So wise he judges it to fly from pain However, and to scape his punishment. So judge thou still, presumptuous, till the wrauth, Which thou incurr'st by flying, meet thy flight Seavenfold, and scourge that wisdom back to Hell, Which taught thee yet no better, that no pain Can equal anger infinite provok't. But wherefore thou alone? wherefore with thee Came not all Hell broke loose? is pain to them Less pain, less to be fled, or thou then they Less hardie to endure? courageous Chief, The first in flight from pain, had'st thou alleg'd To thy deserted host this cause of flight, Thou surely hadst not come sole fugitive. To which the Fiend thus answerd frowning stern. Not that I less endure, or shrink from pain, Insulting Angel, well thou knowst I stood Thy fiercest, when in Battel to thy aide The blasting volied Thunder made all speed And seconded thy else not dreaded Spear. But still thy words at random, as before, Argue thy inexperience what behooves From hard assaies and ill successes past A faithful Leader, not to hazard all Through wayes of danger by himself untri'd. I therefore, I alone first undertook To wing the desolate Abyss, and spie This new created World, whereof in Hell Fame is not silent, here in hope to find Better abode, and my afflicted Powers To settle here on Earth, or in mid Aire; Though for possession put to try once more What thou and thy gay Legions dare against; Whose easier business were to serve thir Lord High up in Heav'n, with songs to hymne his Throne, And practis'd distances to cringe, not fight. To whom the warriour Angel soon repli'd. To say and strait unsay, pretending first Wise to flie pain, professing next the Spie, Argues no Leader, but a lyar trac't, SATAN, and couldst thou faithful add? O name, O sacred name of faithfulness profan'd! Faithful to whom? to thy rebellious crew? Armie of Fiends, fit body to fit head; Was this your discipline and faith ingag'd, Your military obedience, to dissolve Allegeance to th' acknowledg'd Power supream? And thou sly hypocrite, who now wouldst seem Patron of liberty, who more then thou Once fawn'd, and cring'd, and servilly ador'd Heav'ns awful Monarch? wherefore but in hope To dispossess him, and thy self to reigne? But mark what I arreede thee now, avant; Flie thither whence thou fledst: if from this houre Within these hallowd limits thou appeer, Back to th' infernal pit I drag thee chaind, And Seale thee so, as henceforth not to scorne The facil gates of hell too slightly barrd. So threatn'd hee, but SATAN to no threats Gave heed, but waxing more in rage repli'd. Then when I am thy captive talk of chaines, Proud limitarie Cherube, but ere then Farr heavier load thy self expect to feel From my prevailing arme, though Heavens King Ride on thy wings, and thou with thy Compeers, Us'd to the yoak, draw'st his triumphant wheels In progress through the rode of Heav'n Star-pav'd. While thus he spake, th' Angelic Squadron bright Turnd fierie red, sharpning in mooned hornes Thir Phalanx, and began to hemm him round With ported Spears, as thick as when a field Of CERES ripe for harvest waving bends Her bearded Grove of ears, which way the wind Swayes them; the careful Plowman doubting stands Least on the threshing floore his hopeful sheaves Prove chaff. On th' other side SATAN allarm'd Collecting all his might dilated stood, Like TENERIFF or ATLAS unremov'd: His stature reacht the Skie, and on his Crest Sat horror Plum'd; nor wanted in his graspe What seemd both Spear and Shield: now dreadful deeds Might have ensu'd, nor onely Paradise In this commotion, but the Starrie Cope Of Heav'n perhaps, or all the Elements At least had gon to rack, disturbd and torne With violence of this conflict, had not soon Th' Eternal to prevent such horrid fray Hung forth in Heav'n his golden Scales, yet seen Betwixt ASTREA and the SCORPION signe, Wherein all things created first he weighd, The pendulous round Earth with ballanc't Aire In counterpoise, now ponders all events, Battels and Realms: in these he put two weights The sequel each of parting and of fight; The latter quick up flew, and kickt the beam; Which GABRIEL spying, thus bespake the Fiend. SATAN, I know thy strength, and thou knowst mine, Neither our own but giv'n; what follie then To boast what Arms can doe, since thine no more Then Heav'n permits, nor mine, though doubld now To trample thee as mire: for proof look up, And read thy Lot in yon celestial Sign Where thou art weigh'd, & shown how light, how weak, If thou resist. The Fiend lookt up and knew His mounted scale aloft: nor more; but fled Murmuring, and with him fled the shades of night. THE END OF THE FOURTH BOOK. PARADISE LOST BOOK V. Now Morn her rosie steps in th' Eastern Clime Advancing, sow'd the Earth with Orient Pearle, When ADAM wak't, so customd, for his sleep Was Aerie light, from pure digestion bred, And temperat vapors bland, which th' only sound Of leaves and fuming rills, AURORA's fan, Lightly dispers'd, and the shrill Matin Song Of Birds on every bough; so much the more His wonder was to find unwak'nd EVE With Tresses discompos'd, and glowing Cheek, As through unquiet rest: he on his side Leaning half-rais'd, with looks of cordial Love Hung over her enamour'd, and beheld Beautie, which whether waking or asleep, Shot forth peculiar Graces; then with voice Milde, as when ZEPHYRUS on FLORA breathes, Her hand soft touching, whisperd thus. Awake My fairest, my espous'd, my latest found, Heav'ns last best gift, my ever new delight, Awake, the morning shines, and the fresh field Calls us, we lose the prime, to mark how spring Our tended Plants, how blows the Citron Grove, What drops the Myrrhe, & what the balmie Reed, How Nature paints her colours, how the Bee Sits on the Bloom extracting liquid sweet. Such whispering wak'd her, but with startl'd eye On ADAM, whom imbracing, thus she spake. O Sole in whom my thoughts find all repose, My Glorie, my Perfection, glad I see Thy face, and Morn return'd, for I this Night, Such night till this I never pass'd, have dream'd, If dream'd, not as I oft am wont, of thee, Works of day pass't, or morrows next designe, But of offence and trouble, which my mind Knew never till this irksom night; methought Close at mine ear one call'd me forth to walk With gentle voice, I thought it thine; it said, Why sleepst thou EVE? now is the pleasant time, The cool, the silent, save where silence yields To the night-warbling Bird, that now awake Tunes sweetest his love-labor'd song; now reignes Full Orb'd the Moon, and with more pleasing light Shadowie sets off the face of things; in vain, If none regard; Heav'n wakes with all his eyes, Whom to behold but thee, Natures desire, In whose sight all things joy, with ravishment Attracted by thy beauty still to gaze. I rose as at thy call, but found thee not; To find thee I directed then my walk; And on, methought, alone I pass'd through ways That brought me on a sudden to the Tree Of interdicted Knowledge: fair it seem'd, Much fairer to my Fancie then by day: And as I wondring lookt, beside it stood One shap'd & wing'd like one of those from Heav'n By us oft seen; his dewie locks distill'd Ambrosia; on that Tree he also gaz'd; And O fair Plant, said he, with fruit surcharg'd, Deigns none to ease thy load and taste thy sweet, Nor God, nor Man; is Knowledge so despis'd? Or envie, or what reserve forbids to taste? Forbid who will, none shall from me withhold Longer thy offerd good, why else set here? This said he paus'd not, but with ventrous Arme He pluckt, he tasted; mee damp horror chil'd At such bold words voucht with a deed so bold: But he thus overjoy'd, O Fruit Divine, Sweet of thy self, but much more sweet thus cropt, Forbidd'n here, it seems, as onely fit For Gods, yet able to make Gods of Men: And why not Gods of Men, since good, the more Communicated, more abundant growes, The Author not impair'd, but honourd more? Here, happie Creature, fair Angelic EVE, Partake thou also; happie though thou art, Happier thou mayst be, worthier canst not be: Taste this, and be henceforth among the Gods Thy self a Goddess, not to Earth confind, But somtimes in the Air, as wee, somtimes Ascend to Heav'n, by merit thine, and see What life the Gods live there, and such live thou. So saying, he drew nigh, and to me held, Even to my mouth of that same fruit held part Which he had pluckt; the pleasant savourie smell So quick'nd appetite, that I, methought, Could not but taste. Forthwith up to the Clouds With him I flew, and underneath beheld The Earth outstretcht immense, a prospect wide And various: wondring at my flight and change To this high exaltation; suddenly My Guide was gon, and I, me thought, sunk down, And fell asleep; but O how glad I wak'd To find this but a dream! Thus EVE her Night Related, and thus ADAM answerd sad. Best Image of my self and dearer half, The trouble of thy thoughts this night in sleep Affects me equally; nor can I like This uncouth dream, of evil sprung I fear; Yet evil whence? in thee can harbour none, Created pure. But know that in the Soule Are many lesser Faculties that serve Reason as chief; among these Fansie next Her office holds; of all external things, Which the five watchful Senses represent, She forms Imaginations, Aerie shapes, Which Reason joyning or disjoyning, frames All what we affirm or what deny, and call Our knowledge or opinion; then retires Into her private Cell when Nature rests. Oft in her absence mimic Fansie wakes To imitate her; but misjoyning shapes, Wilde work produces oft, and most in dreams, Ill matching words and deeds long past or late. Som such resemblances methinks I find Of our last Eevnings talk, in this thy dream, But with addition strange; yet be not sad. Evil into the mind of God or Man May come and go, so unapprov'd, and leave No spot or blame behind: Which gives me hope That what in sleep thou didst abhorr to dream, Waking thou never wilt consent to do. Be not disheart'nd then, nor cloud those looks That wont to be more chearful and serene Then when fair Morning first smiles on the World, And let us to our fresh imployments rise Among the Groves, the Fountains, and the Flours That open now thir choicest bosom'd smells Reservd from night, and kept for thee in store. So cheard he his fair Spouse, and she was cheard, But silently a gentle tear let fall From either eye, and wip'd them with her haire; Two other precious drops that ready stood, Each in thir chrystal sluce, hee ere they fell Kiss'd as the gracious signs of sweet remorse And pious awe, that feard to have offended. So all was cleard, and to the Field they haste. But first from under shadie arborous roof, Soon as they forth were come to open sight Of day-spring, and the Sun, who scarce up risen With wheels yet hov'ring o're the Ocean brim, Shot paralel to the earth his dewie ray, Discovering in wide Lantskip all the East Of Paradise and EDENS happie Plains, Lowly they bow'd adoring, and began Thir Orisons, each Morning duly paid In various style, for neither various style Nor holy rapture wanted they to praise Thir Maker, in fit strains pronounc't or sung Unmeditated, such prompt eloquence Flowd from thir lips, in Prose or numerous Verse, More tuneable then needed Lute or Harp To add more sweetness, and they thus began. These are thy glorious works, Parent of good, Almightie, thine this universal Frame, Thus wondrous fair; thy self how wondrous then! Unspeakable, who sitst above these Heavens To us invisible or dimly seen In these thy lowest works, yet these declare Thy goodness beyond thought, and Power Divine: Speak yee who best can tell, ye Sons of light, Angels, for yee behold him, and with songs And choral symphonies, Day without Night, Circle his Throne rejoycing, yee in Heav'n, On Earth joyn all yee Creatures to extoll Him first, him last, him midst, and without end. Fairest of Starrs, last in the train of Night, If better thou belong not to the dawn, Sure pledge of day, that crownst the smiling Morn With thy bright Circlet, praise him in thy Spheare While day arises, that sweet hour of Prime. Thou Sun, of this great World both Eye and Soule, Acknowledge him thy Greater, sound his praise In thy eternal course, both when thou climb'st, And when high Noon hast gaind, & when thou fallst. Moon, that now meetst the orient Sun, now fli'st With the fixt Starrs, fixt in thir Orb that flies, And yee five other wandring Fires that move In mystic Dance not without Song, resound His praise, who out of Darkness call'd up Light. Aire, and ye Elements the eldest birth Of Natures Womb, that in quaternion run Perpetual Circle, multiform; and mix And nourish all things, let your ceasless change Varie to our great Maker still new praise. Ye Mists and Exhalations that now rise From Hill or steaming Lake, duskie or grey, Till the Sun paint your fleecie skirts with Gold, In honour to the Worlds great Author rise, Whether to deck with Clouds the uncolourd skie, Or wet the thirstie Earth with falling showers, Rising or falling still advance his praise. His praise ye Winds, that from four Quarters blow, Breath soft or loud; and wave your tops, ye Pines, With every Plant, in sign of Worship wave. Fountains and yee, that warble, as ye flow, Melodious murmurs, warbling tune his praise. Joyn voices all ye living Souls, ye Birds, That singing up to Heaven Gate ascend, Bear on your wings and in your notes his praise; Yee that in Waters glide, and yee that walk The Earth, and stately tread, or lowly creep; Witness if I be silent, Morn or Eeven, To Hill, or Valley, Fountain, or fresh shade Made vocal by my Song, and taught his praise. Hail universal Lord, be bounteous still To give us onely good; and if the night Have gathered aught of evil or conceald, Disperse it, as now light dispels the dark. So pray'd they innocent, and to thir thoughts Firm peace recoverd soon and wonted calm. On to thir mornings rural work they haste Among sweet dewes and flours; where any row Of Fruit-trees overwoodie reachd too farr Thir pamperd boughes, and needed hands to check Fruitless imbraces: or they led the Vine To wed her Elm; she spous'd about him twines Her mariageable arms, and with her brings Her dowr th' adopted Clusters, to adorn His barren leaves. Them thus imploid beheld With pittie Heav'ns high King, and to him call'd RAPHAEL, the sociable Spirit, that deign'd To travel with TOBIAS, and secur'd His marriage with the seaventimes-wedded Maid. RAPHAEL, said hee, thou hear'st what stir on Earth SATAN from Hell scap't through the darksom Gulf Hath raisd in Paradise, and how disturbd This night the human pair, how he designes In them at once to ruin all mankind. Go therefore, half this day as friend with friend Converse with ADAM, in what Bowre or shade Thou find'st him from the heat of Noon retir'd, To respit his day-labour with repast, Or with repose; and such discourse bring on, As may advise him of his happie state, Happiness in his power left free to will, Left to his own free Will, his Will though free, Yet mutable; whence warne him to beware He swerve not too secure: tell him withall His danger, and from whom, what enemie Late falln himself from Heav'n, is plotting now The fall of others from like state of bliss; By violence, no, for that shall be withstood, But by deceit and lies; this let him know, Least wilfully transgressing he pretend Surprisal, unadmonisht, unforewarnd. So spake th' Eternal Father, and fulfilld All Justice: nor delaid the winged Saint After his charge receivd, but from among Thousand Celestial Ardors, where he stood Vaild with his gorgeous wings, up springing light Flew through the midst of Heav'n; th' angelic Quires On each hand parting, to his speed gave way Through all th' Empyreal road; till at the Gate Of Heav'n arriv'd, the gate self-opend wide On golden Hinges turning, as by work Divine the sov'ran Architect had fram'd. From hence, no cloud, or, to obstruct his sight, Starr interpos'd, however small he sees, Not unconform to other shining Globes, Earth and the Gard'n of God, with Cedars crownd Above all Hills. As when by night the Glass Of GALILEO, less assur'd, observes Imagind Lands and Regions in the Moon: Or Pilot from amidst the CYCLADES DELOS or SAMOS first appeering kenns A cloudy spot. Down thither prone in flight He speeds, and through the vast Ethereal Skie Sailes between worlds & worlds, with steddie wing Now on the polar windes, then with quick Fann Winnows the buxom Air; till within soare Of Towring Eagles, to all the Fowles he seems A PHOENIX, gaz'd by all, as that sole Bird When to enshrine his reliques in the Sun's Bright Temple, to AEGYPTIAN THEB'S he flies. At once on th' Eastern cliff of Paradise He lights, and to his proper shape returns A Seraph wingd; six wings he wore, to shade His lineaments Divine; the pair that clad Each shoulder broad, came mantling o're his brest With regal Ornament; the middle pair Girt like a Starrie Zone his waste, and round Skirted his loines and thighes with downie Gold And colours dipt in Heav'n; the third his feet Shaddowd from either heele with featherd maile Skie-tinctur'd grain. Like MAIA'S son he stood, And shook his Plumes, that Heav'nly fragrance filld The circuit wide. Strait knew him all the bands Of Angels under watch; and to his state, And to his message high in honour rise; For on som message high they guessd him bound. Thir glittering Tents he passd, and now is come Into the blissful field, through Groves of Myrrhe, And flouring Odours, Cassia, Nard, and Balme; A Wilderness of sweets; for Nature here Wantond as in her prime, and plaid at will Her Virgin Fancies, pouring forth more sweet, Wilde above rule or art; enormous bliss. Him through the spicie Forrest onward com ADAM discernd, as in the dore he sat Of his coole Bowre, while now the mounted Sun Shot down direct his fervid Raies, to warme Earths inmost womb, more warmth then ADAM need; And EVE within, due at her hour prepar'd For dinner savourie fruits, of taste to please True appetite, and not disrelish thirst Of nectarous draughts between, from milkie stream, Berrie or Grape: to whom thus ADAM call'd. Haste hither EVE, and worth thy sight behold Eastward among those Trees, what glorious shape Comes this way moving; seems another Morn Ris'n on mid-noon; som great behest from Heav'n To us perhaps he brings, and will voutsafe This day to be our Guest. But goe with speed, And what thy stores contain, bring

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walk With Heav'nly touch of instrumental sounds In full harmonic number joind, thir songs Divide the night, and lift our thoughts to Heaven. Thus talking hand in hand alone they pass'd On to thir blissful Bower; it was a place Chos'n by the sovran Planter, when he fram'd All things to mans delightful use; the roofe Of thickest covert was inwoven shade Laurel and Mirtle, and what higher grew Of firm and fragrant leaf; on either side ACANTHUS, and each odorous bushie shrub Fenc'd up the verdant wall; each beauteous flour, IRIS all hues, Roses, and Gessamin Rear'd high thir flourisht heads between, and wrought Mosaic; underfoot the Violet, Crocus, and Hyacinth with rich inlay Broiderd the ground, more colour'd then with stone Of costliest Emblem: other Creature here Beast, Bird, Insect, or Worm durst enter none; Such was thir awe of man. In shadier Bower More sacred and sequesterd, though but feignd, PAN or SILVANUS never slept, nor Nymph, Nor FAUNUS haunted. Here in close recess With Flowers, Garlands, and sweet-smelling Herbs Espoused EVE deckt first her Nuptial Bed, And heav'nly Quires the Hymenaean sung, What day the genial Angel to our Sire Brought her in naked beauty more adorn'd, More lovely then PANDORA, whom the Gods Endowd with all thir gifts, and O too like In sad event, when to the unwiser Son Of JAPHET brought by HERMES, she ensnar'd Mankind with her faire looks, to be aveng'd On him who had stole JOVES authentic fire. Thus at thir shadie Lodge arriv'd, both stood, Both turnd, and under op'n Skie ador'd The God that made both Skie, Air, Earth & Heav'n Which they beheld, the Moons resplendent Globe And starrie Pole: Thou also mad'st the Night, Maker Omnipotent, and thou the Day, Which we in our appointed work imployd Have finisht happie in our mutual help And mutual love, the Crown of all our bliss Ordain'd by thee, and this delicious place For us too large, where thy abundance wants Partakers, and uncropt falls to the ground. But thou hast promis'd from us two a Race To fill the Earth, who shall with us extoll Thy goodness infinite, both when we wake, And when we seek, as now, thy gift of sleep. This said unanimous, and other Rites Observing none, but adoration pure Which God likes best, into thir inmost bower Handed they went; and eas'd the putting off These troublesom disguises which wee wear, Strait side by side were laid, nor turnd I weene ADAM from his fair Spouse, nor EVE the Rites Mysterious of connubial Love refus'd: Whatever Hypocrites austerely talk Of puritie and place and innocence, Defaming as impure what God declares Pure, and commands to som, leaves free to all. Our Maker bids increase, who bids abstain But our Destroyer, foe to God and Man? Haile wedded Love, mysterious Law, true source Of human ofspring, sole proprietie, In Paradise of all things common else. By thee adulterous lust was driv'n from men Among the bestial herds to raunge, by thee Founded in Reason, Loyal, Just, and Pure, Relations dear, and all the Charities Of Father, Son, and Brother first were known. Farr be it, that I should write thee sin or blame, Or think thee unbefitting holiest place, Perpetual Fountain of Domestic sweets, Whose Bed is undefil'd and chast pronounc't, Present, or past, as Saints and Patriarchs us'd. Here Love his golden shafts imploies, here lights His constant Lamp, and waves his purple wings, Reigns here and revels; not in the bought smile Of Harlots, loveless, joyless, unindeard, Casual fruition, nor in Court Amours Mixt Dance, or wanton Mask, or Midnight Bal, Or Serenate, which the starv'd Lover sings To his proud fair, best quitted with disdain. These lulld by Nightingales imbraceing slept, And on thir naked limbs the flourie roof Showrd Roses, which the Morn repair'd. Sleep on, Blest pair; and O yet happiest if ye seek No happier state, and know to know no more. Now had night measur'd with her shaddowie Cone Half way up Hill this vast Sublunar Vault, And from thir Ivorie Port the Cherubim Forth issuing at th' accustomd hour stood armd To thir night watches in warlike Parade, When GABRIEL to his next in power thus spake. UZZIEL, half these draw off, and coast the South With strictest watch; these other wheel the North, Our circuit meets full West. As flame they part Half wheeling to the Shield, half to the Spear. From these, two strong and suttle Spirits he calld That neer him stood, and gave them thus in charge. ITHURIEL and ZEPHON, with wingd speed Search through this Garden, leav unsearcht no nook, But chiefly where those two fair Creatures Lodge, Now laid perhaps asleep secure of harme. This Eevning from the Sun's decline arriv'd Who tells of som infernal Spirit seen Hitherward bent (who could have thought?) escap'd The barrs of Hell, on errand bad no doubt: Such where ye find, seise fast, and hither bring. So saying, on he led his radiant Files, Daz'ling the Moon; these to the Bower direct In search of whom they sought: him there they found Squat like a Toad, close at the eare of EVE; Assaying by his Devilish art to reach The Organs of her Fancie, and with them forge Illusions as he list, Phantasms and Dreams, Or if, inspiring venom, he might taint Th' animal Spirits that from pure blood arise Like gentle breaths from Rivers pure, thence raise At least distemperd, discontented thoughts, Vain hopes, vain aimes, inordinate desires Blown up with high conceits ingendring pride. Him thus intent ITHURIEL with his Spear Touch'd lightly; for no falshood can endure Touch of Celestial temper, but returns Of force to its own likeness: up he starts Discoverd and surpriz'd. As when a spark Lights on a heap of nitrous Powder, laid Fit for the Tun som Magazin to store Against a rumord Warr, the Smuttie graine With sudden blaze diffus'd, inflames the Aire: So started up in his own shape the Fiend. Back stept those two fair Angels half amaz'd So sudden to behold the grieslie King; Yet thus, unmovd with fear, accost him soon. Which of those rebell Spirits adjudg'd to Hell Com'st thou, escap'd thy prison, and transform'd, Why satst thou like an enemie in waite Here watching at the head of these that sleep? Know ye not then said SATAN, filld with scorn, Know ye not me? ye knew me once no mate For you, there sitting where ye durst not soare; Not to know mee argues your selves unknown, The lowest of your throng; or if ye know, Why ask ye, and superfluous begin Your message, like to end as much in vain? To whom thus ZEPHON, answering scorn with scorn. Think not, revolted Spirit, thy shape the same, Or undiminisht brightness, to be known As when thou stoodst in Heav'n upright and pure; That Glorie then, when thou no more wast good, Departed from thee, and thou resembl'st now Thy sin and place of doom obscure and foule. But come, for thou, be sure, shalt give account To him who sent us, whose charge is to keep This place inviolable, and these from harm. So spake the Cherube, and his grave rebuke Severe in youthful beautie, added grace Invincible: abasht the Devil stood, And felt how awful goodness is, and saw Vertue in her shape how lovly, saw, and pin'd His loss; but chiefly to find here observd His lustre visibly impar'd; yet seemd Undaunted. If I must contend, said he, Best with the best, the Sender not the sent, Or all at once; more glorie will be wonn, Or less be lost. Thy fear, said ZEPHON bold, Will save us trial what the least can doe Single against thee wicked, and thence weak. The Fiend repli'd not, overcome with rage; But like a proud Steed reind, went hautie on, Chaumping his iron curb: to strive or flie He held it vain; awe from above had quelld His heart, not else dismai'd. Now drew they nigh The western point, where those half-rounding guards Just met, & closing stood in squadron joind Awaiting next command. To whom thir Chief GABRIEL from the Front thus calld aloud. O friends, I hear the tread of nimble feet Hasting this way, and now by glimps discerne ITHURIEL and ZEPHON through the shade, And with them comes a third of Regal port, But faded splendor wan; who by his gate And fierce demeanour seems the Prince of Hell, Not likely to part hence without contest; Stand firm, for in his look defiance lours. He scarce had ended, when those two approachd And brief related whom they brought, wher found, How busied, in what form and posture coucht. To whom with stern regard thus GABRIEL spake. Why hast thou, SATAN, broke the bounds prescrib'd To thy transgressions, and disturbd the charge Of others, who approve not to transgress By thy example, but have power and right To question thy bold entrance on this place; Imploi'd it seems to violate sleep, and those Whose dwelling God hath planted here in bliss? To whom thus SATAN with contemptuous brow. GABRIEL, thou hadst in Heav'n th' esteem of wise, And such I held thee; but this question askt Puts me in doubt. Lives ther who loves his pain? Who would not, finding way, break loose from Hell, Though thither doomd? Thou wouldst thy self, no doubt, And boldly venture to whatever place Farthest from pain, where thou mightst hope to change Torment with ease, & soonest recompence Dole with delight, which in this place I sought; To thee no reason; who knowst only good, But evil hast not tri'd: and wilt object His will who bound us? let him surer barr His Iron Gates, if he intends our stay In that dark durance: thus much what was askt. The rest is true, they found me where they say; But that implies not violence or harme. Thus hee in scorn. The warlike Angel mov'd, Disdainfully half smiling thus repli'd. O loss of one in Heav'n to judge of wise, Since SATAN fell, whom follie overthrew, And now returns him from his prison scap't, Gravely in doubt whether to hold them wise Or not, who ask what boldness brought him hither Unlicenc't from his bounds in Hell prescrib'd; So wise he judges it to fly from pain However, and to scape his punishment. So judge thou still, presumptuous, till the wrauth, Which thou incurr'st by flying, meet thy flight Seavenfold, and scourge that wisdom back to Hell, Which taught thee yet no better, that no pain Can equal anger infinite provok't. But wherefore thou alone? wherefore with thee Came not all Hell broke loose? is pain to them Less pain, less to be fled, or thou then they Less hardie to endure? courageous Chief, The first in flight from pain, had'st thou alleg'd To thy deserted host this cause of flight, Thou surely hadst not come sole fugitive. To which the Fiend thus answerd frowning stern. Not that I less endure, or shrink from pain, Insulting Angel, well thou knowst I stood Thy fiercest, when in Battel to thy aide The blasting volied Thunder made all speed And seconded thy else not dreaded Spear. But still thy words at random, as before, Argue thy inexperience what behooves From hard assaies and ill successes past A faithful Leader, not to hazard all Through wayes of danger by himself untri'd. I therefore, I alone first undertook To wing the desolate Abyss, and spie This new created World, whereof in Hell Fame is not silent, here in hope to find Better abode, and my afflicted Powers To settle here on Earth, or in mid Aire; Though for possession put to try once more What thou and thy gay Legions dare against; Whose easier business were to serve thir Lord High up in Heav'n, with songs to hymne his Throne, And practis'd distances to cringe, not fight. To whom the warriour Angel soon repli'd. To say and strait unsay, pretending first Wise to flie pain, professing next the Spie, Argues no Leader, but a lyar trac't, SATAN, and couldst thou faithful add? O name, O sacred name of faithfulness profan'd! Faithful to whom? to thy rebellious crew? Armie of Fiends, fit body to fit head; Was this your discipline and faith ingag'd, Your military obedience, to dissolve Allegeance to th' acknowledg'd Power supream? And thou sly hypocrite, who now wouldst seem Patron of liberty, who more then thou Once fawn'd, and cring'd, and servilly ador'd Heav'ns awful Monarch? wherefore but in hope To dispossess him, and thy self to reigne? But mark what I arreede thee now, avant; Flie thither whence thou fledst: if from this houre Within these hallowd limits thou appeer, Back to th' infernal pit I drag thee chaind, And Seale thee so, as henceforth not to scorne The facil gates of hell too slightly barrd. So threatn'd hee, but SATAN to no threats Gave heed, but waxing more in rage repli'd. Then when I am thy captive talk of chaines, Proud limitarie Cherube, but ere then Farr heavier load thy self expect to feel From my prevailing arme, though Heavens King Ride on thy wings, and thou with thy Compeers, Us'd to the yoak, draw'st his triumphant wheels In progress through the rode of Heav'n Star-pav'd. While thus he spake, th' Angelic Squadron bright Turnd fierie red, sharpning in mooned hornes Thir Phalanx, and began to hemm him round With ported Spears, as thick as when a field Of CERES ripe for harvest waving bends Her bearded Grove of ears, which way the wind Swayes them; the careful Plowman doubting stands Least on the threshing floore his hopeful sheaves Prove chaff. On th' other side SATAN allarm'd Collecting all his might dilated stood, Like TENERIFF or ATLAS unremov'd: His stature reacht the Skie, and on his Crest Sat horror Plum'd; nor wanted in his graspe What seemd both Spear and Shield: now dreadful deeds Might have ensu'd, nor onely Paradise In this commotion, but the Starrie Cope Of Heav'n perhaps, or all the Elements At least had gon to rack, disturbd and torne With violence of this conflict, had not soon Th' Eternal to prevent such horrid fray Hung forth in Heav'n his golden Scales, yet seen Betwixt ASTREA and the SCORPION signe, Wherein all things created first he weighd, The pendulous round Earth with ballanc't Aire In counterpoise, now ponders all events, Battels and Realms: in these he put two weights The sequel each of parting and of fight; The latter quick up flew, and kickt the beam; Which GABRIEL spying, thus bespake the Fiend. SATAN, I know thy strength, and thou knowst mine, Neither our own but giv'n; what follie then To boast what Arms can doe, since thine no more Then Heav'n permits, nor mine, though doubld now To trample thee as mire: for proof look up, And read thy Lot in yon celestial Sign Where thou art weigh'd, & shown how light, how weak, If thou resist. The Fiend lookt up and knew His mounted scale aloft: nor more; but fled Murmuring, and with him fled the shades of night. THE END OF THE FOURTH BOOK. PARADISE LOST BOOK V. Now Morn her rosie steps in th' Eastern Clime Advancing, sow'd the Earth with Orient Pearle, When ADAM wak't, so customd, for his sleep Was Aerie light, from pure digestion bred, And temperat vapors bland, which th' only sound Of leaves and fuming rills, AURORA's fan, Lightly dispers'd, and the shrill Matin Song Of Birds on every bough; so much the more His wonder was to find unwak'nd EVE With Tresses discompos'd, and glowing Cheek, As through unquiet rest: he on his side Leaning half-rais'd, with looks of cordial Love Hung over her enamour'd, and beheld Beautie, which whether waking or asleep, Shot forth peculiar Graces; then with voice Milde, as when ZEPHYRUS on FLORA breathes, Her hand soft touching, whisperd thus. Awake My fairest, my espous'd, my latest found, Heav'ns last best gift, my ever new delight, Awake, the morning shines, and the fresh field Calls us, we lose the prime, to mark how spring Our tended Plants, how blows the Citron Grove, What drops the Myrrhe, & what the balmie Reed, How Nature paints her colours, how the Bee Sits on the Bloom extracting liquid sweet. Such whispering wak'd her, but with startl'd eye On ADAM, whom imbracing, thus she spake. O Sole in whom my thoughts find all repose, My Glorie, my Perfection, glad I see Thy face, and Morn return'd, for I this Night, Such night till this I never pass'd, have dream'd, If dream'd, not as I oft am wont, of thee, Works of day pass't, or morrows next designe, But of offence and trouble, which my mind Knew never till this irksom night; methought Close at mine ear one call'd me forth to walk With gentle voice, I thought it thine; it said, Why sleepst thou EVE? now is the pleasant time, The cool, the silent, save where silence yields To the night-warbling Bird, that now awake Tunes sweetest his love-labor'd song; now reignes Full Orb'd the Moon, and with more pleasing light Shadowie sets off the face of things; in vain, If none regard; Heav'n wakes with all his eyes, Whom to behold but thee, Natures desire, In whose sight all things joy, with ravishment Attracted by thy beauty still to gaze. I rose as at thy call, but found thee not; To find thee I directed then my walk; And on, methought, alone I pass'd through ways That brought me on a sudden to the Tree Of interdicted Knowledge: fair it seem'd, Much fairer to my Fancie then by day: And as I wondring lookt, beside it stood One shap'd & wing'd like one of those from Heav'n By us oft seen; his dewie locks distill'd Ambrosia; on that Tree he also gaz'd; And O fair Plant, said he, with fruit surcharg'd, Deigns none to ease thy load and taste thy sweet, Nor God, nor Man; is Knowledge so despis'd? Or envie, or what reserve forbids to taste? Forbid who will, none shall from me withhold Longer thy offerd good, why else set here? This said he paus'd not, but with ventrous Arme He pluckt, he tasted; mee damp horror chil'd At such bold words voucht with a deed so bold: But he thus overjoy'd, O Fruit Divine, Sweet of thy self, but much more sweet thus cropt, Forbidd'n here, it seems, as onely fit For Gods, yet able to make Gods of Men: And why not Gods of Men, since good, the more Communicated, more abundant growes, The Author not impair'd, but honourd more? Here, happie Creature, fair Angelic EVE, Partake thou also; happie though thou art, Happier thou mayst be, worthier canst not be: Taste this, and be henceforth among the Gods Thy self a Goddess, not to Earth confind, But somtimes in the Air, as wee, somtimes Ascend to Heav'n, by merit thine, and see What life the Gods live there, and such live thou. So saying, he drew nigh, and to me held, Even to my mouth of that same fruit held part Which he had pluckt; the pleasant savourie smell So quick'nd appetite, that I, methought, Could not but taste. Forthwith up to the Clouds With him I flew, and underneath beheld The Earth outstretcht immense, a prospect wide And various: wondring at my flight and change To this high exaltation; suddenly My Guide was gon, and I, me thought, sunk down, And fell asleep; but O how glad I wak'd To find this but a dream! Thus EVE her Night Related, and thus ADAM answerd sad. Best Image of my self and dearer half, The trouble of thy thoughts this night in sleep Affects me equally; nor can I like This uncouth dream, of evil sprung I fear; Yet evil whence? in thee can harbour none, Created pure. But know that in the Soule Are many lesser Faculties that serve Reason as chief; among these Fansie next Her office holds; of all external things, Which the five watchful Senses represent, She forms Imaginations, Aerie shapes, Which Reason joyning or disjoyning, frames All what we affirm or what deny, and call Our knowledge or opinion; then retires Into her private Cell when Nature rests. Oft in her absence mimic Fansie wakes To imitate her; but misjoyning shapes, Wilde work produces oft, and most in dreams, Ill matching words and deeds long past or late. Som such resemblances methinks I find Of our last Eevnings talk, in this thy dream, But with addition strange; yet be not sad. Evil into the mind of God or Man May come and go, so unapprov'd, and leave No spot or blame behind: Which gives me hope That what in sleep thou didst abhorr to dream, Waking thou never wilt consent to do. Be not disheart'nd then, nor cloud those looks That wont to be more chearful and serene Then when fair Morning first smiles on the World, And let us to our fresh imployments rise Among the Groves, the Fountains, and the Flours That open now thir choicest bosom'd smells Reservd from night, and kept for thee in store. So cheard he his fair Spouse, and she was cheard, But silently a gentle tear let fall From either eye, and wip'd them with her haire; Two other precious drops that ready stood, Each in thir chrystal sluce, hee ere they fell Kiss'd as the gracious signs of sweet remorse And pious awe, that feard to have offended. So all was cleard, and to the Field they haste. But first from under shadie arborous roof, Soon as they forth were come to open sight Of day-spring, and the Sun, who scarce up risen With wheels yet hov'ring o're the Ocean brim, Shot paralel to the earth his dewie ray, Discovering in wide Lantskip all the East Of Paradise and EDENS happie Plains, Lowly they bow'd adoring, and began Thir Orisons, each Morning duly paid In various style, for neither various style Nor holy rapture wanted they to praise Thir Maker, in fit strains pronounc't or sung Unmeditated, such prompt eloquence Flowd from thir lips, in Prose or numerous Verse, More tuneable then needed Lute or Harp To add more sweetness, and they thus began. These are thy glorious works, Parent of good, Almightie, thine this universal Frame, Thus wondrous fair; thy self how wondrous then! Unspeakable, who sitst above these Heavens To us invisible or dimly seen In these thy lowest works, yet these declare Thy goodness beyond thought, and Power Divine: Speak yee who best can tell, ye Sons of light, Angels, for yee behold him, and with songs And choral symphonies, Day without Night, Circle his Throne rejoycing, yee in Heav'n, On Earth joyn all yee Creatures to extoll Him first, him last, him midst, and without end. Fairest of Starrs, last in the train of Night, If better thou belong not to the dawn, Sure pledge of day, that crownst the smiling Morn With thy bright Circlet, praise him in thy Spheare While day arises, that sweet hour of Prime. Thou Sun, of this great World both Eye and Soule, Acknowledge him thy Greater, sound his praise In thy eternal course, both when thou climb'st, And when high Noon hast gaind, & when thou fallst. Moon, that now meetst the orient Sun, now fli'st With the fixt Starrs, fixt in thir Orb that flies, And yee five other wandring Fires that move In mystic Dance not without Song, resound His praise, who out of Darkness call'd up Light. Aire, and ye Elements the eldest birth Of Natures Womb, that in quaternion run Perpetual Circle, multiform; and mix And nourish all things, let your ceasless change Varie to our great Maker still new praise. Ye Mists and Exhalations that now rise From Hill or steaming Lake, duskie or grey, Till the Sun paint your fleecie skirts with Gold, In honour to the Worlds great Author rise, Whether to deck with Clouds the uncolourd skie, Or wet the thirstie Earth with falling showers, Rising or falling still advance his praise. His praise ye Winds, that from four Quarters blow, Breath soft or loud; and wave your tops, ye Pines, With every Plant, in sign of Worship wave. Fountains and yee, that warble, as ye flow, Melodious murmurs, warbling tune his praise. Joyn voices all ye living Souls, ye Birds, That singing up to Heaven Gate ascend, Bear on your wings and in your notes his praise; Yee that in Waters glide, and yee that walk The Earth, and stately tread, or lowly creep; Witness if I be silent, Morn or Eeven, To Hill, or Valley, Fountain, or fresh shade Made vocal by my Song, and taught his praise. Hail universal Lord, be bounteous still To give us onely good; and if the night Have gathered aught of evil or conceald, Disperse it, as now light dispels the dark. So pray'd they innocent, and to thir thoughts Firm peace recoverd soon and wonted calm. On to thir mornings rural work they haste Among sweet dewes and flours; where any row Of Fruit-trees overwoodie reachd too farr Thir pamperd boughes, and needed hands to check Fruitless imbraces: or they led the Vine To wed her Elm; she spous'd about him twines Her mariageable arms, and with her brings Her dowr th' adopted Clusters, to adorn His barren leaves. Them thus imploid beheld With pittie Heav'ns high King, and to him call'd RAPHAEL, the sociable Spirit, that deign'd To travel with TOBIAS, and secur'd His marriage with the seaventimes-wedded Maid. RAPHAEL, said hee, thou hear'st what stir on Earth SATAN from Hell scap't through the darksom Gulf Hath raisd in Paradise, and how disturbd This night the human pair, how he designes In them at once to ruin all mankind. Go therefore, half this day as friend with friend Converse with ADAM, in what Bowre or shade Thou find'st him from the heat of Noon retir'd, To respit his day-labour with repast, Or with repose; and such discourse bring on, As may advise him of his happie state, Happiness in his power left free to will, Left to his own free Will, his Will though free, Yet mutable; whence warne him to beware He swerve not too secure: tell him withall His danger, and from whom, what enemie Late falln himself from Heav'n, is plotting now The fall of others from like state of bliss; By violence, no, for that shall be withstood, But by deceit and lies; this let him know, Least wilfully transgressing he pretend Surprisal, unadmonisht, unforewarnd. So spake th' Eternal Father, and fulfilld All Justice: nor delaid the winged Saint After his charge receivd, but from among Thousand Celestial Ardors, where he stood Vaild with his gorgeous wings, up springing light Flew through the midst of Heav'n; th' angelic Quires On each hand parting, to his speed gave way Through all th' Empyreal road; till at the Gate Of Heav'n arriv'd, the gate self-opend wide On golden Hinges turning, as by work Divine the sov'ran Architect had fram'd. From hence, no cloud, or, to obstruct his sight, Starr interpos'd, however small he sees, Not unconform to other shining Globes, Earth and the Gard'n of God, with Cedars crownd Above all Hills. As when by night the Glass Of GALILEO, less assur'd, observes Imagind Lands and Regions in the Moon: Or Pilot from amidst the CYCLADES DELOS or SAMOS first appeering kenns A cloudy spot. Down thither prone in flight He speeds, and through the vast Ethereal Skie Sailes between worlds & worlds, with steddie wing Now on the polar windes, then with quick Fann Winnows the buxom Air; till within soare Of Towring Eagles, to all the Fowles he seems A PHOENIX, gaz'd by all, as that sole Bird When to enshrine his reliques in the Sun's Bright Temple, to AEGYPTIAN THEB'S he flies. At once on th' Eastern cliff of Paradise He lights, and to his proper shape returns A Seraph wingd; six wings he wore, to shade His lineaments Divine; the pair that clad Each shoulder broad, came mantling o're his brest With regal Ornament; the middle pair Girt like a Starrie Zone his waste, and round Skirted his loines and thighes with downie Gold And colours dipt in Heav'n; the third his feet Shaddowd from either heele with featherd maile Skie-tinctur'd grain. Like MAIA'S son he stood, And shook his Plumes, that Heav'nly fragrance filld The circuit wide. Strait knew him all the bands Of Angels under watch; and to his state, And to his message high in honour rise; For on som message high they guessd him bound. Thir glittering Tents he passd, and now is come Into the blissful field, through Groves of Myrrhe, And flouring Odours, Cassia, Nard, and Balme; A Wilderness of sweets; for Nature here Wantond as in her prime, and plaid at will Her Virgin Fancies, pouring forth more sweet, Wilde above rule or art; enormous bliss. Him through the spicie Forrest onward com ADAM discernd, as in the dore he sat Of his coole Bowre, while now the mounted Sun Shot down direct his fervid Raies, to warme Earths inmost womb, more warmth then ADAM need; And EVE within, due at her hour prepar'd For dinner savourie fruits, of taste to please True appetite, and not disrelish thirst Of nectarous draughts between, from milkie stream, Berrie or Grape: to whom thus ADAM call'd. Haste hither EVE, and worth thy sight behold Eastward among those Trees, what glorious shape Comes this way moving; seems another Morn Ris'n on mid-noon; som great behest from Heav'n To us perhaps he brings, and will voutsafe This day to be our Guest. But goe with speed, And what thy stores contain, bring

gates

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

walk With Heav'nly touch of instrumental sounds In full harmonic number joind, thir songs Divide the night, and lift our thoughts to Heaven. Thus talking hand in hand alone they pass'd On to thir blissful Bower; it was a place Chos'n by the sovran Planter, when he fram'd All things to mans delightful use; the roofe Of thickest covert was inwoven shade Laurel and Mirtle, and what higher grew Of firm and fragrant leaf; on either side ACANTHUS, and each odorous bushie shrub Fenc'd up the verdant wall; each beauteous flour, IRIS all hues, Roses, and Gessamin Rear'd high thir flourisht heads between, and wrought Mosaic; underfoot the Violet, Crocus, and Hyacinth with rich inlay Broiderd the ground, more colour'd then with stone Of costliest Emblem: other Creature here Beast, Bird, Insect, or Worm durst enter none; Such was thir awe of man. In shadier Bower More sacred and sequesterd, though but feignd, PAN or SILVANUS never slept, nor Nymph, Nor FAUNUS haunted. Here in close recess With Flowers, Garlands, and sweet-smelling Herbs Espoused EVE deckt first her Nuptial Bed, And heav'nly Quires the Hymenaean sung, What day the genial Angel to our Sire Brought her in naked beauty more adorn'd, More lovely then PANDORA, whom the Gods Endowd with all thir gifts, and O too like In sad event, when to the unwiser Son Of JAPHET brought by HERMES, she ensnar'd Mankind with her faire looks, to be aveng'd On him who had stole JOVES authentic fire. Thus at thir shadie Lodge arriv'd, both stood, Both turnd, and under op'n Skie ador'd The God that made both Skie, Air, Earth & Heav'n Which they beheld, the Moons resplendent Globe And starrie Pole: Thou also mad'st the Night, Maker Omnipotent, and thou the Day, Which we in our appointed work imployd Have finisht happie in our mutual help And mutual love, the Crown of all our bliss Ordain'd by thee, and this delicious place For us too large, where thy abundance wants Partakers, and uncropt falls to the ground. But thou hast promis'd from us two a Race To fill the Earth, who shall with us extoll Thy goodness infinite, both when we wake, And when we seek, as now, thy gift of sleep. This said unanimous, and other Rites Observing none, but adoration pure Which God likes best, into thir inmost bower Handed they went; and eas'd the putting off These troublesom disguises which wee wear, Strait side by side were laid, nor turnd I weene ADAM from his fair Spouse, nor EVE the Rites Mysterious of connubial Love refus'd: Whatever Hypocrites austerely talk Of puritie and place and innocence, Defaming as impure what God declares Pure, and commands to som, leaves free to all. Our Maker bids increase, who bids abstain But our Destroyer, foe to God and Man? Haile wedded Love, mysterious Law, true source Of human ofspring, sole proprietie, In Paradise of all things common else. By thee adulterous lust was driv'n from men Among the bestial herds to raunge, by thee Founded in Reason, Loyal, Just, and Pure, Relations dear, and all the Charities Of Father, Son, and Brother first were known. Farr be it, that I should write thee sin or blame, Or think thee unbefitting holiest place, Perpetual Fountain of Domestic sweets, Whose Bed is undefil'd and chast pronounc't, Present, or past, as Saints and Patriarchs us'd. Here Love his golden shafts imploies, here lights His constant Lamp, and waves his purple wings, Reigns here and revels; not in the bought smile Of Harlots, loveless, joyless, unindeard, Casual fruition, nor in Court Amours Mixt Dance, or wanton Mask, or Midnight Bal, Or Serenate, which the starv'd Lover sings To his proud fair, best quitted with disdain. These lulld by Nightingales imbraceing slept, And on thir naked limbs the flourie roof Showrd Roses, which the Morn repair'd. Sleep on, Blest pair; and O yet happiest if ye seek No happier state, and know to know no more. Now had night measur'd with her shaddowie Cone Half way up Hill this vast Sublunar Vault, And from thir Ivorie Port the Cherubim Forth issuing at th' accustomd hour stood armd To thir night watches in warlike Parade, When GABRIEL to his next in power thus spake. UZZIEL, half these draw off, and coast the South With strictest watch; these other wheel the North, Our circuit meets full West. As flame they part Half wheeling to the Shield, half to the Spear. From these, two strong and suttle Spirits he calld That neer him stood, and gave them thus in charge. ITHURIEL and ZEPHON, with wingd speed Search through this Garden, leav unsearcht no nook, But chiefly where those two fair Creatures Lodge, Now laid perhaps asleep secure of harme. This Eevning from the Sun's decline arriv'd Who tells of som infernal Spirit seen Hitherward bent (who could have thought?) escap'd The barrs of Hell, on errand bad no doubt: Such where ye find, seise fast, and hither bring. So saying, on he led his radiant Files, Daz'ling the Moon; these to the Bower direct In search of whom they sought: him there they found Squat like a Toad, close at the eare of EVE; Assaying by his Devilish art to reach The Organs of her Fancie, and with them forge Illusions as he list, Phantasms and Dreams, Or if, inspiring venom, he might taint Th' animal Spirits that from pure blood arise Like gentle breaths from Rivers pure, thence raise At least distemperd, discontented thoughts, Vain hopes, vain aimes, inordinate desires Blown up with high conceits ingendring pride. Him thus intent ITHURIEL with his Spear Touch'd lightly; for no falshood can endure Touch of Celestial temper, but returns Of force to its own likeness: up he starts Discoverd and surpriz'd. As when a spark Lights on a heap of nitrous Powder, laid Fit for the Tun som Magazin to store Against a rumord Warr, the Smuttie graine With sudden blaze diffus'd, inflames the Aire: So started up in his own shape the Fiend. Back stept those two fair Angels half amaz'd So sudden to behold the grieslie King; Yet thus, unmovd with fear, accost him soon. Which of those rebell Spirits adjudg'd to Hell Com'st thou, escap'd thy prison, and transform'd, Why satst thou like an enemie in waite Here watching at the head of these that sleep? Know ye not then said SATAN, filld with scorn, Know ye not me? ye knew me once no mate For you, there sitting where ye durst not soare; Not to know mee argues your selves unknown, The lowest of your throng; or if ye know, Why ask ye, and superfluous begin Your message, like to end as much in vain? To whom thus ZEPHON, answering scorn with scorn. Think not, revolted Spirit, thy shape the same, Or undiminisht brightness, to be known As when thou stoodst in Heav'n upright and pure; That Glorie then, when thou no more wast good, Departed from thee, and thou resembl'st now Thy sin and place of doom obscure and foule. But come, for thou, be sure, shalt give account To him who sent us, whose charge is to keep This place inviolable, and these from harm. So spake the Cherube, and his grave rebuke Severe in youthful beautie, added grace Invincible: abasht the Devil stood, And felt how awful goodness is, and saw Vertue in her shape how lovly, saw, and pin'd His loss; but chiefly to find here observd His lustre visibly impar'd; yet seemd Undaunted. If I must contend, said he, Best with the best, the Sender not the sent, Or all at once; more glorie will be wonn, Or less be lost. Thy fear, said ZEPHON bold, Will save us trial what the least can doe Single against thee wicked, and thence weak. The Fiend repli'd not, overcome with rage; But like a proud Steed reind, went hautie on, Chaumping his iron curb: to strive or flie He held it vain; awe from above had quelld His heart, not else dismai'd. Now drew they nigh The western point, where those half-rounding guards Just met, & closing stood in squadron joind Awaiting next command. To whom thir Chief GABRIEL from the Front thus calld aloud. O friends, I hear the tread of nimble feet Hasting this way, and now by glimps discerne ITHURIEL and ZEPHON through the shade, And with them comes a third of Regal port, But faded splendor wan; who by his gate And fierce demeanour seems the Prince of Hell, Not likely to part hence without contest; Stand firm, for in his look defiance lours. He scarce had ended, when those two approachd And brief related whom they brought, wher found, How busied, in what form and posture coucht. To whom with stern regard thus GABRIEL spake. Why hast thou, SATAN, broke the bounds prescrib'd To thy transgressions, and disturbd the charge Of others, who approve not to transgress By thy example, but have power and right To question thy bold entrance on this place; Imploi'd it seems to violate sleep, and those Whose dwelling God hath planted here in bliss? To whom thus SATAN with contemptuous brow. GABRIEL, thou hadst in Heav'n th' esteem of wise, And such I held thee; but this question askt Puts me in doubt. Lives ther who loves his pain? Who would not, finding way, break loose from Hell, Though thither doomd? Thou wouldst thy self, no doubt, And boldly venture to whatever place Farthest from pain, where thou mightst hope to change Torment with ease, & soonest recompence Dole with delight, which in this place I sought; To thee no reason; who knowst only good, But evil hast not tri'd: and wilt object His will who bound us? let him surer barr His Iron Gates, if he intends our stay In that dark durance: thus much what was askt. The rest is true, they found me where they say; But that implies not violence or harme. Thus hee in scorn. The warlike Angel mov'd, Disdainfully half smiling thus repli'd. O loss of one in Heav'n to judge of wise, Since SATAN fell, whom follie overthrew, And now returns him from his prison scap't, Gravely in doubt whether to hold them wise Or not, who ask what boldness brought him hither Unlicenc't from his bounds in Hell prescrib'd; So wise he judges it to fly from pain However, and to scape his punishment. So judge thou still, presumptuous, till the wrauth, Which thou incurr'st by flying, meet thy flight Seavenfold, and scourge that wisdom back to Hell, Which taught thee yet no better, that no pain Can equal anger infinite provok't. But wherefore thou alone? wherefore with thee Came not all Hell broke loose? is pain to them Less pain, less to be fled, or thou then they Less hardie to endure? courageous Chief, The first in flight from pain, had'st thou alleg'd To thy deserted host this cause of flight, Thou surely hadst not come sole fugitive. To which the Fiend thus answerd frowning stern. Not that I less endure, or shrink from pain, Insulting Angel, well thou knowst I stood Thy fiercest, when in Battel to thy aide The blasting volied Thunder made all speed And seconded thy else not dreaded Spear. But still thy words at random, as before, Argue thy inexperience what behooves From hard assaies and ill successes past A faithful Leader, not to hazard all Through wayes of danger by himself untri'd. I therefore, I alone first undertook To wing the desolate Abyss, and spie This new created World, whereof in Hell Fame is not silent, here in hope to find Better abode, and my afflicted Powers To settle here on Earth, or in mid Aire; Though for possession put to try once more What thou and thy gay Legions dare against; Whose easier business were to serve thir Lord High up in Heav'n, with songs to hymne his Throne, And practis'd distances to cringe, not fight. To whom the warriour Angel soon repli'd. To say and strait unsay, pretending first Wise to flie pain, professing next the Spie, Argues no Leader, but a lyar trac't, SATAN, and couldst thou faithful add? O name, O sacred name of faithfulness profan'd! Faithful to whom? to thy rebellious crew? Armie of Fiends, fit body to fit head; Was this your discipline and faith ingag'd, Your military obedience, to dissolve Allegeance to th' acknowledg'd Power supream? And thou sly hypocrite, who now wouldst seem Patron of liberty, who more then thou Once fawn'd, and cring'd, and servilly ador'd Heav'ns awful Monarch? wherefore but in hope To dispossess him, and thy self to reigne? But mark what I arreede thee now, avant; Flie thither whence thou fledst: if from this houre Within these hallowd limits thou appeer, Back to th' infernal pit I drag thee chaind, And Seale thee so, as henceforth not to scorne The facil gates of hell too slightly barrd. So threatn'd hee, but SATAN to no threats Gave heed, but waxing more in rage repli'd. Then when I am thy captive talk of chaines, Proud limitarie Cherube, but ere then Farr heavier load thy self expect to feel From my prevailing arme, though Heavens King Ride on thy wings, and thou with thy Compeers, Us'd to the yoak, draw'st his triumphant wheels In progress through the rode of Heav'n Star-pav'd. While thus he spake, th' Angelic Squadron bright Turnd fierie red, sharpning in mooned hornes Thir Phalanx, and began to hemm him round With ported Spears, as thick as when a field Of CERES ripe for harvest waving bends Her bearded Grove of ears, which way the wind Swayes them; the careful Plowman doubting stands Least on the threshing floore his hopeful sheaves Prove chaff. On th' other side SATAN allarm'd Collecting all his might dilated stood, Like TENERIFF or ATLAS unremov'd: His stature reacht the Skie, and on his Crest Sat horror Plum'd; nor wanted in his graspe What seemd both Spear and Shield: now dreadful deeds Might have ensu'd, nor onely Paradise In this commotion, but the Starrie Cope Of Heav'n perhaps, or all the Elements At least had gon to rack, disturbd and torne With violence of this conflict, had not soon Th' Eternal to prevent such horrid fray Hung forth in Heav'n his golden Scales, yet seen Betwixt ASTREA and the SCORPION signe, Wherein all things created first he weighd, The pendulous round Earth with ballanc't Aire In counterpoise, now ponders all events, Battels and Realms: in these he put two weights The sequel each of parting and of fight; The latter quick up flew, and kickt the beam; Which GABRIEL spying, thus bespake the Fiend. SATAN, I know thy strength, and thou knowst mine, Neither our own but giv'n; what follie then To boast what Arms can doe, since thine no more Then Heav'n permits, nor mine, though doubld now To trample thee as mire: for proof look up, And read thy Lot in yon celestial Sign Where thou art weigh'd, & shown how light, how weak, If thou resist. The Fiend lookt up and knew His mounted scale aloft: nor more; but fled Murmuring, and with him fled the shades of night. THE END OF THE FOURTH BOOK. PARADISE LOST BOOK V. Now Morn her rosie steps in th' Eastern Clime Advancing, sow'd the Earth with Orient Pearle, When ADAM wak't, so customd, for his sleep Was Aerie light, from pure digestion bred, And temperat vapors bland, which th' only sound Of leaves and fuming rills, AURORA's fan, Lightly dispers'd, and the shrill Matin Song Of Birds on every bough; so much the more His wonder was to find unwak'nd EVE With Tresses discompos'd, and glowing Cheek, As through unquiet rest: he on his side Leaning half-rais'd, with looks of cordial Love Hung over her enamour'd, and beheld Beautie, which whether waking or asleep, Shot forth peculiar Graces; then with voice Milde, as when ZEPHYRUS on FLORA breathes, Her hand soft touching, whisperd thus. Awake My fairest, my espous'd, my latest found, Heav'ns last best gift, my ever new delight, Awake, the morning shines, and the fresh field Calls us, we lose the prime, to mark how spring Our tended Plants, how blows the Citron Grove, What drops the Myrrhe, & what the balmie Reed, How Nature paints her colours, how the Bee Sits on the Bloom extracting liquid sweet. Such whispering wak'd her, but with startl'd eye On ADAM, whom imbracing, thus she spake. O Sole in whom my thoughts find all repose, My Glorie, my Perfection, glad I see Thy face, and Morn return'd, for I this Night, Such night till this I never pass'd, have dream'd, If dream'd, not as I oft am wont, of thee, Works of day pass't, or morrows next designe, But of offence and trouble, which my mind Knew never till this irksom night; methought Close at mine ear one call'd me forth to walk With gentle voice, I thought it thine; it said, Why sleepst thou EVE? now is the pleasant time, The cool, the silent, save where silence yields To the night-warbling Bird, that now awake Tunes sweetest his love-labor'd song; now reignes Full Orb'd the Moon, and with more pleasing light Shadowie sets off the face of things; in vain, If none regard; Heav'n wakes with all his eyes, Whom to behold but thee, Natures desire, In whose sight all things joy, with ravishment Attracted by thy beauty still to gaze. I rose as at thy call, but found thee not; To find thee I directed then my walk; And on, methought, alone I pass'd through ways That brought me on a sudden to the Tree Of interdicted Knowledge: fair it seem'd, Much fairer to my Fancie then by day: And as I wondring lookt, beside it stood One shap'd & wing'd like one of those from Heav'n By us oft seen; his dewie locks distill'd Ambrosia; on that Tree he also gaz'd; And O fair Plant, said he, with fruit surcharg'd, Deigns none to ease thy load and taste thy sweet, Nor God, nor Man; is Knowledge so despis'd? Or envie, or what reserve forbids to taste? Forbid who will, none shall from me withhold Longer thy offerd good, why else set here? This said he paus'd not, but with ventrous Arme He pluckt, he tasted; mee damp horror chil'd At such bold words voucht with a deed so bold: But he thus overjoy'd, O Fruit Divine, Sweet of thy self, but much more sweet thus cropt, Forbidd'n here, it seems, as onely fit For Gods, yet able to make Gods of Men: And why not Gods of Men, since good, the more Communicated, more abundant growes, The Author not impair'd, but honourd more? Here, happie Creature, fair Angelic EVE, Partake thou also; happie though thou art, Happier thou mayst be, worthier canst not be: Taste this, and be henceforth among the Gods Thy self a Goddess, not to Earth confind, But somtimes in the Air, as wee, somtimes Ascend to Heav'n, by merit thine, and see What life the Gods live there, and such live thou. So saying, he drew nigh, and to me held, Even to my mouth of that same fruit held part Which he had pluckt; the pleasant savourie smell So quick'nd appetite, that I, methought, Could not but taste. Forthwith up to the Clouds With him I flew, and underneath beheld The Earth outstretcht immense, a prospect wide And various: wondring at my flight and change To this high exaltation; suddenly My Guide was gon, and I, me thought, sunk down, And fell asleep; but O how glad I wak'd To find this but a dream! Thus EVE her Night Related, and thus ADAM answerd sad. Best Image of my self and dearer half, The trouble of thy thoughts this night in sleep Affects me equally; nor can I like This uncouth dream, of evil sprung I fear; Yet evil whence? in thee can harbour none, Created pure. But know that in the Soule Are many lesser Faculties that serve Reason as chief; among these Fansie next Her office holds; of all external things, Which the five watchful Senses represent, She forms Imaginations, Aerie shapes, Which Reason joyning or disjoyning, frames All what we affirm or what deny, and call Our knowledge or opinion; then retires Into her private Cell when Nature rests. Oft in her absence mimic Fansie wakes To imitate her; but misjoyning shapes, Wilde work produces oft, and most in dreams, Ill matching words and deeds long past or late. Som such resemblances methinks I find Of our last Eevnings talk, in this thy dream, But with addition strange; yet be not sad. Evil into the mind of God or Man May come and go, so unapprov'd, and leave No spot or blame behind: Which gives me hope That what in sleep thou didst abhorr to dream, Waking thou never wilt consent to do. Be not disheart'nd then, nor cloud those looks That wont to be more chearful and serene Then when fair Morning first smiles on the World, And let us to our fresh imployments rise Among the Groves, the Fountains, and the Flours That open now thir choicest bosom'd smells Reservd from night, and kept for thee in store. So cheard he his fair Spouse, and she was cheard, But silently a gentle tear let fall From either eye, and wip'd them with her haire; Two other precious drops that ready stood, Each in thir chrystal sluce, hee ere they fell Kiss'd as the gracious signs of sweet remorse And pious awe, that feard to have offended. So all was cleard, and to the Field they haste. But first from under shadie arborous roof, Soon as they forth were come to open sight Of day-spring, and the Sun, who scarce up risen With wheels yet hov'ring o're the Ocean brim, Shot paralel to the earth his dewie ray, Discovering in wide Lantskip all the East Of Paradise and EDENS happie Plains, Lowly they bow'd adoring, and began Thir Orisons, each Morning duly paid In various style, for neither various style Nor holy rapture wanted they to praise Thir Maker, in fit strains pronounc't or sung Unmeditated, such prompt eloquence Flowd from thir lips, in Prose or numerous Verse, More tuneable then needed Lute or Harp To add more sweetness, and they thus began. These are thy glorious works, Parent of good, Almightie, thine this universal Frame, Thus wondrous fair; thy self how wondrous then! Unspeakable, who sitst above these Heavens To us invisible or dimly seen In these thy lowest works, yet these declare Thy goodness beyond thought, and Power Divine: Speak yee who best can tell, ye Sons of light, Angels, for yee behold him, and with songs And choral symphonies, Day without Night, Circle his Throne rejoycing, yee in Heav'n, On Earth joyn all yee Creatures to extoll Him first, him last, him midst, and without end. Fairest of Starrs, last in the train of Night, If better thou belong not to the dawn, Sure pledge of day, that crownst the smiling Morn With thy bright Circlet, praise him in thy Spheare While day arises, that sweet hour of Prime. Thou Sun, of this great World both Eye and Soule, Acknowledge him thy Greater, sound his praise In thy eternal course, both when thou climb'st, And when high Noon hast gaind, & when thou fallst. Moon, that now meetst the orient Sun, now fli'st With the fixt Starrs, fixt in thir Orb that flies, And yee five other wandring Fires that move In mystic Dance not without Song, resound His praise, who out of Darkness call'd up Light. Aire, and ye Elements the eldest birth Of Natures Womb, that in quaternion run Perpetual Circle, multiform; and mix And nourish all things, let your ceasless change Varie to our great Maker still new praise. Ye Mists and Exhalations that now rise From Hill or steaming Lake, duskie or grey, Till the Sun paint your fleecie skirts with Gold, In honour to the Worlds great Author rise, Whether to deck with Clouds the uncolourd skie, Or wet the thirstie Earth with falling showers, Rising or falling still advance his praise. His praise ye Winds, that from four Quarters blow, Breath soft or loud; and wave your tops, ye Pines, With every Plant, in sign of Worship wave. Fountains and yee, that warble, as ye flow, Melodious murmurs, warbling tune his praise. Joyn voices all ye living Souls, ye Birds, That singing up to Heaven Gate ascend, Bear on your wings and in your notes his praise; Yee that in Waters glide, and yee that walk The Earth, and stately tread, or lowly creep; Witness if I be silent, Morn or Eeven, To Hill, or Valley, Fountain, or fresh shade Made vocal by my Song, and taught his praise. Hail universal Lord, be bounteous still To give us onely good; and if the night Have gathered aught of evil or conceald, Disperse it, as now light dispels the dark. So pray'd they innocent, and to thir thoughts Firm peace recoverd soon and wonted calm. On to thir mornings rural work they haste Among sweet dewes and flours; where any row Of Fruit-trees overwoodie reachd too farr Thir pamperd boughes, and needed hands to check Fruitless imbraces: or they led the Vine To wed her Elm; she spous'd about him twines Her mariageable arms, and with her brings Her dowr th' adopted Clusters, to adorn His barren leaves. Them thus imploid beheld With pittie Heav'ns high King, and to him call'd RAPHAEL, the sociable Spirit, that deign'd To travel with TOBIAS, and secur'd His marriage with the seaventimes-wedded Maid. RAPHAEL, said hee, thou hear'st what stir on Earth SATAN from Hell scap't through the darksom Gulf Hath raisd in Paradise, and how disturbd This night the human pair, how he designes In them at once to ruin all mankind. Go therefore, half this day as friend with friend Converse with ADAM, in what Bowre or shade Thou find'st him from the heat of Noon retir'd, To respit his day-labour with repast, Or with repose; and such discourse bring on, As may advise him of his happie state, Happiness in his power left free to will, Left to his own free Will, his Will though free, Yet mutable; whence warne him to beware He swerve not too secure: tell him withall His danger, and from whom, what enemie Late falln himself from Heav'n, is plotting now The fall of others from like state of bliss; By violence, no, for that shall be withstood, But by deceit and lies; this let him know, Least wilfully transgressing he pretend Surprisal, unadmonisht, unforewarnd. So spake th' Eternal Father, and fulfilld All Justice: nor delaid the winged Saint After his charge receivd, but from among Thousand Celestial Ardors, where he stood Vaild with his gorgeous wings, up springing light Flew through the midst of Heav'n; th' angelic Quires On each hand parting, to his speed gave way Through all th' Empyreal road; till at the Gate Of Heav'n arriv'd, the gate self-opend wide On golden Hinges turning, as by work Divine the sov'ran Architect had fram'd. From hence, no cloud, or, to obstruct his sight, Starr interpos'd, however small he sees, Not unconform to other shining Globes, Earth and the Gard'n of God, with Cedars crownd Above all Hills. As when by night the Glass Of GALILEO, less assur'd, observes Imagind Lands and Regions in the Moon: Or Pilot from amidst the CYCLADES DELOS or SAMOS first appeering kenns A cloudy spot. Down thither prone in flight He speeds, and through the vast Ethereal Skie Sailes between worlds & worlds, with steddie wing Now on the polar windes, then with quick Fann Winnows the buxom Air; till within soare Of Towring Eagles, to all the Fowles he seems A PHOENIX, gaz'd by all, as that sole Bird When to enshrine his reliques in the Sun's Bright Temple, to AEGYPTIAN THEB'S he flies. At once on th' Eastern cliff of Paradise He lights, and to his proper shape returns A Seraph wingd; six wings he wore, to shade His lineaments Divine; the pair that clad Each shoulder broad, came mantling o're his brest With regal Ornament; the middle pair Girt like a Starrie Zone his waste, and round Skirted his loines and thighes with downie Gold And colours dipt in Heav'n; the third his feet Shaddowd from either heele with featherd maile Skie-tinctur'd grain. Like MAIA'S son he stood, And shook his Plumes, that Heav'nly fragrance filld The circuit wide. Strait knew him all the bands Of Angels under watch; and to his state, And to his message high in honour rise; For on som message high they guessd him bound. Thir glittering Tents he passd, and now is come Into the blissful field, through Groves of Myrrhe, And flouring Odours, Cassia, Nard, and Balme; A Wilderness of sweets; for Nature here Wantond as in her prime, and plaid at will Her Virgin Fancies, pouring forth more sweet, Wilde above rule or art; enormous bliss. Him through the spicie Forrest onward com ADAM discernd, as in the dore he sat Of his coole Bowre, while now the mounted Sun Shot down direct his fervid Raies, to warme Earths inmost womb, more warmth then ADAM need; And EVE within, due at her hour prepar'd For dinner savourie fruits, of taste to please True appetite, and not disrelish thirst Of nectarous draughts between, from milkie stream, Berrie or Grape: to whom thus ADAM call'd. Haste hither EVE, and worth thy sight behold Eastward among those Trees, what glorious shape Comes this way moving; seems another Morn Ris'n on mid-noon; som great behest from Heav'n To us perhaps he brings, and will voutsafe This day to be our Guest. But goe with speed, And what thy stores contain, bring

ador'd

How many times the word 'ador'd' appears in the text?

was a touch of motherliness in her feelings towards him. But his upbringing and his associations had been, she diagnosed, "awful." At New Romney she glanced but little; that was remote. But in her inventory--she went over him as one might go over a newly taken house, with impartial thoroughness--she discovered more proximate influences, surprising intimations of nocturnal "sing-songs"--she pictured it as almost shocking that Kipps should sing to the banjo--much low-grade wisdom treasured from a person called Buggins--"Who _is_ Buggins?" said Helen--vague figures of indisputable vulgarity, Pierce and Carshot, and more particularly, a very terrible social phenomenon, Chitterlow. Chitterlow blazed upon them with unheralded oppressive brilliance the first time they were abroad together. They were going along the front of the Leas to see a school play in Sandgate--at the last moment Mrs. Walshingham had been unable to come with them--when Chitterlow loomed up into the new world. He was wearing the suit of striped flannel and the straw hat that had followed Kipps' payment in advance for his course in elocution, his hands were deep in his side pockets and animated the corners of his jacket, and his attentive gaze at the passing loungers, the faint smile under his boldly drawn nose, showed him engaged in studying character--no doubt for some forthcoming play. "What HO!" said he, at the sight of Kipps, and swept off the straw hat with so ample a clutch of his great, flat hand that it suggested to Helen's startled mind a conjurer about to palm a half-penny. "'Ello, Chitt'low," said Kipps a little awkwardly and not saluting. Chitterlow hesitated. "Half a mo', my boy," he said, and arrested Kipps by extending a large hand over his chest. "Excuse me, my dear," he said, bowing like his Russian count by way of apology to Helen and with a smile that would have killed at a hundred yards. He affected a semi-confidential grouping of himself and Kipps while Helen stood in white amazement. "About that play," he said. "'Ow about it?" asked Kipps, acutely aware of Helen. "It's all right," said Chitterlow. "There's a strong smell of syndicate in the air, I may tell you--Strong." "That's aw right," said Kipps. "You needn't tell everybody," said Chitterlow with a transitory, confidential hand to his mouth, which pointed the application of the "everybody" just a trifle too strongly. "But I think it's coming off. However----. I mustn't detain you now. So long. You'll come 'round, eh?" "Right you are," said Kipps. "To-night?" "At eight." And then, and more in the manner of a Russian prince than any common count, Chitterlow bowed and withdrew. Just for a moment he allowed a conquering eye to challenge Helen's and noted her for a girl of quality.... There was a silence between our lovers for a space. "That," said Kipps with an allusive movement of the head, "was Chitterlow." "Is he--a friend of yours?" "In a way.... You see--I met 'im. Leastways 'e met me. Run into me with a bicycle, 'e did, and so we got talking together." He tried to appear at his ease. The young lady scrutinised his profile. "What is he?" "'E's a Nacter chap," said Kipps. "Leastways 'e writes plays." "And sells them?" "Partly." "Whom to?" "Different people. Shares he sells.... It's all right, reely--I meant to tell you about him before." Helen looked over her shoulder to catch a view of Chitterlow's retreating aspect. It did not compel her complete confidence. She turned to her lover and said in a tone of quiet authority, "You must tell me all about Chitterlow. Now." The explanation began.... The School Play came almost as a relief to Kipps. In the flusterment of going in he could almost forget for a time his Laocoon struggle to explain, and in the intervals he did his best to keep forgetting. But Helen, with a gentle insistence, resumed the explanation of Chitterlow as they returned towards Folkestone. Chitterlow was confoundedly difficult to explain. You could hardly imagine! There was an almost motherly anxiety in Helen's manner, blended with the resolution of a schoolmistress to get to the bottom of the affair. Kipps' ears were soon quite brightly red. "Have you seen one of his plays?" "'E's tole me about one." "But on the stage." "No. He 'asn't 'ad any on the stage yet. That's all coming...." "Promise me," she said in conclusion, "you won't do anything without consulting me." And of course Kipps promised. "Oo--no!" They went on their way in silence. "One can't know everybody," said Helen in general. "Of course," said Kipps; "in a sort of way it was him that helped me to my money." And he indicated in a confused manner the story of the advertisement. "I don't like to drop 'im all at once," he added. Helen was silent for a space, and when she spoke she went off at a tangent. "We shall live in London--soon," she remarked. "It's only while we are here." It was the first intimation she gave him of their post-nuptial prospects. "We shall have a nice little flat somewhere, not too far west, and there we shall build up a circle of our own." 2 All that declining summer Kipps was the pupil lover. He made an extraordinarily open secret of his desire for self-improvement; indeed Helen had to hint once or twice that his modest frankness was excessive, and all this new circle of friends did, each after his or her manner, everything that was possible to supplement Helen's efforts and help him to ease and skill in the more cultivated circles to which he had come. Coote was still the chief teacher, the tutor--there are so many little difficulties that a man may take to another man that he would not care to propound to the woman he loves--but they were all, so to speak, upon the staff. Even the freckled girl said to him once in a pleasant way, "You mustn't say "contre temps," you must say "contraytom,"" when he borrowed that expression from "Manners and Rules," and she tried at his own suggestion to give him clear ideas upon the subject of "as" and "has." A certain confusion between these words was becoming evident, the first fruits of a lesson from Chitterlow on the aspirate. Hitherto he had discarded that dangerous letter almost altogether, but now he would pull up at words beginning with "h" and draw a sawing breath--rather like a startled kitten--and then aspirate with vigour. Said Kipps one day, "_As_ 'e?--I should say, ah--Has 'e? Ye know I got a lot of difficulty over them two words, which is which?" "Well, 'as' is a conjunction and 'has' is a verb." "I know," said Kipps, "but when is 'has' a conjunction and when is 'as' a verb?" "Well," said the freckled girl, preparing to be very lucid. "It's _has_ when it means one has, meaning having, but if it isn't it's _as_. As for instance one says 'e--I mean _he_--He has. But one says 'as he has.'" "I see," said Kipps. "So I ought to say 'as 'e?'" "No, if you are asking a question you say _has_ 'e--I mean he--'as he?" She blushed quite brightly, but still clung to her air of lucidity. "I see," said Kipps. He was about to say something further, but he desisted. "I got it much clearer now. _Has_ 'e? _Has_ 'e as. Yes." "If you remember about having." "Oo I will," said Kipps. Miss Coote specialised in Kipps' artistic development. She had early found an opinion that he had considerable artistic sensibility, his remarks on her work had struck her as decidedly intelligent, and whenever he called around to see them she would show him some work of art, now an illustrated book, now perhaps a colour print of a Botticelli, now the Hundred Best Paintings, now "Academy Pictures," now a German art handbook and now some magazine of furniture and design. "I know you like these things," she used to say, and Kipps said, "Oo I _do_." He soon acquired a little armoury of appreciative sayings. When presently the Walshinghams took him up to the Arts and Crafts, his deportment was intelligent in the extreme. For a time he kept a wary silence and suddenly pitched upon a colour print. "That's rather nace," he said to Mrs. Walshingham. "That lill' thing. There." He always said things like that by preference to the mother rather than the daughter unless he was perfectly sure. He quite took to Mrs. Walshingham. He was impressed by her conspicuous tact and refinement; it seemed to him that the ladylike could go no further. She was always dressed with a delicate fussiness that was never disarranged and even a sort of faded quality about her hair and face and bearing and emotions contributed to her effect. Kipps was not a big man, and commonly he did not feel a big man, but with Mrs. Walshingham he always felt enormous and distended, as though he was a navvy who had taken some disagreeable poison which puffed him up inside his skin as a preliminary to bursting. He felt, too, as though he had been rolled in clay and his hair dressed with gum. And he felt that his voice was strident and his accent like somebody swinging a crowded pig's pail in a free and careless manner. All this increased and enforced his respect for her. Her hand, which flitted often and again to his hand and arm, was singularly well shaped and cool. "Arthur," she called him from the very beginning. She did not so much positively teach and tell him as tactfully guide and infect him. Her conversation was not so much didactic as exemplary. She would say, "I _do_ like people to do" so and so. She would tell him anecdotes of nice things done, of gentlemanly feats of graceful consideration; she would record her neat observations of people in trains and omnibuses; how, for example, a man had passed her change to the conductor, "quite a common man he looked," but he had lifted his hat. She stamped Kipps so deeply with the hat-raising habit that he would uncover if he found himself in the same railway ticket office with a lady had to stand ceremoniously until the difficulties of change drove him to an apologetic provisional oblique resumption of his headgear.... And robbing these things of any air of personal application, she threw about them an abundant talk about her two children--she called them her Twin Jewels quite frequently--about their gifts, their temperaments, their ambition, their need of opportunity. They needed opportunity, she would say, as other people needed air.... In his conversations with her Kipps always assumed, and she seemed to assume, that she was to join that home in London Helen foreshadowed, but he was surprised one day to gather that this was not to be the case. "It wouldn't do," said Helen, with decision. "We want to make a circle of our own." "But won't she be a bit lonely down here?" asked Kipps. "There's the Waces, and Mrs. Prebble and Mrs. Bindon Botting and--lots of people she knows." And Helen dismissed this possibility.... Young Walshingham's share in the educational syndicate was smaller. But he shone out when they went to London on that Arts and Crafts expedition. Then this rising man of affairs showed Kipps how to buy the more theatrical weeklies for consumption in the train, how to buy and what to buy in the way of cigarettes with gold tips and shilling cigars, and how to order hock for lunch and sparkling Moselle for dinner, how to calculate the fare of a hansom cab--penny a minute while he goes--how to look intelligently at an hotel tape, and how to sit still in a train like a thoughtful man instead of talking like a fool and giving yourself away. And he, too, would glance at the good time coming when they were to be in London for good and all. That prospect expanded and developed particulars. It presently took up a large part of Helen's conversation. Her conversations with Kipps were never of a grossly sentimental sort; there was a shyness of speech in that matter with both of them, but these new adumbrations were at least as interesting and not so directly disagreeable as the clear-cut intimations of personal defect that for a time had so greatly chastened Kipps' delight in her presence. The future presented itself with an almost perfect frankness as a joint campaign of Mrs. Walshingham's Twin Jewels upon the Great World, with Kipps in the capacity of baggage and supply. They would still be dreadfully poor, of course--this amazed Kipps, but he said nothing--until "Brudderkins" began to succeed, but if they were clever and lucky they might do a great deal. When Helen spoke of London a brooding look, as of one who contemplates a distant country, came into her eyes. Already it seemed they had the nucleus of a set. Brudderkins was a member of the Theatrical Judges, an excellent and influential little club of journalists and literary people, and he knew Shimer and Stargate and Whiffle, of the "Red Dragon," and besides these were the Revels. They knew the Revels quite well. Sidney Revel before his rapid rise to prominence as a writer of epigrammatic essays that were quite above the ordinary public, had been an assistant master at one of the best Folkestone schools, Brudderkins had brought him home to tea several times, and it was he had first suggested Helen should try and write. "It's perfectly easy," Sidney had said. He had been writing occasional things for the evening papers, and for the weekly reviews even at that time. Then he had gone up to London and had almost unavoidedly become a dramatic critic. Those brilliant essays had followed, and then "Red Hearts a-Beating," the romance that had made him. It was a tale of spirited adventure, full of youth and beauty and na ve passion and generous devotion, bold, as the _Bookman_ said, and frank in places, but never in the slightest degree morbid. He had met and married an American widow with quite a lot of money, and they had made a very distinct place for themselves, Kipps learnt, in the literary and artistic society of London. Helen seemed to dwell on the Revels a great deal; it was her exemplary story, and when she spoke of Sidney--she often called him Sidney--she would become thoughtful. She spoke most of him naturally because she had still to meet Mrs. Revel.... Certainly they would be in the world in no time, even if the distant connection with the Beaupres family came to nothing. Kipps gathered that with his marriage and the movement to London they were to undergo that subtle change of name Coote had first adumbrated. They were to become "Cuyps," Mr. and Mrs. Cuyps. Or, was it Cuyp? "It'll be rum at first," said Kipps. "I dessay I shall soon get into it."... So in their several ways they all contributed to enlarge and refine and exercise the intelligence of Kipps. And behind all these other influences, and, as it were, presiding over and correcting these influences, was Kipps' nearest friend, Coote, a sort of master of the ceremonies. You figure his face, blowing slightly with solicitude, his slate coloured, projecting but not unkindly eye intent upon our hero. The thing he thought was going off admirably. He studied Kipps' character immensely. He would discuss him with his sister, with Mrs. Walshingham, with the freckled girl, with anyone who would stand it. "He is an interesting character," he would say, "likable--a sort of gentleman by instinct. He takes to all these things. He improves every day. He'll soon get Sang Froid. We took him up just in time. He wants now--well----. Next year, perhaps, if there is a good Extension Literature course, he might go in for it. He wants to go in for something like that." "He's going in for his bicycle now," said Mrs. Walshingham. "That's all right for summer," said Coote, "but he wants to go in for some serious, intellectual interest, something to take him out of himself a little more. Savoir Faire and self-forgetfulness is more than half the secret of Sang Froid." 3 The world as Coote presented it was in part an endorsement, in part an amplification and in part a rectification of the world of Kipps, the world that derived from the old couple in New Romney and had been developed in the Emporium; the world, in fact, of common British life. There was the same subtle sense of social graduation that had moved Mrs. Kipps to prohibit intercourse with labourers' children and the same dread of anything "common" that had kept the personal quality of Mr. Shalford's establishment so high. But now a certain disagreeable doubt about Kipps' own position was removed and he stood with Coote inside the sphere of gentlemen assured. Within the sphere of gentlemen there are distinctions of rank indeed, but none of class; there are the Big People and the modest, refined, gentlemanly little people like Coote, who may even dabble in the professions and counterless trades; there are lords and magnificences, and there are gentle folk who have to manage, but they can all call on one another, they preserve a general equality of deportment throughout, they constitute that great state within the state, Society, or at any rate they make believe they do. "But reely," said the Pupil, "not what you call being in Society?" "Yes," said Coote. "Of course, down here one doesn't see much of it, but there's local society. It has the same rules." "Calling and all that?" "Precisely," said Coote. Kipps thought, whistled a bar, and suddenly broached a question of conscience. "I often wonder," he said, "whether I oughtn't to dress for dinner--when I'm alone 'ere." Coote protruded his lips and reflected. "Not full dress," he adjudicated; "that would be a little excessive. But you should _change_, you know. Put on a mess jacket and that sort of thing--easy dress. That is what _I_ should do, certainly, if I wasn't in harness--and poor." He coughed modestly and patted his hair behind. And after that the washing bill of Kipps quadrupled, and he was to be seen at times by the bandstand with his light summer overcoat unbuttoned to give a glimpse of his nice white tie. He and Coote would be smoking the gold-tipped cigarettes young Walshingham had prescribed as _chic_, and appreciating the music highly. "That's--puff--a very nice bit," Kipps would say, or better, "That's nace." And at the first grunts of the loyal anthem up they stood with religiously uplifted hats. Whatever else you might call them, you could never call them disloyal. The boundary of Society was admittedly very close to Coote and Kipps, and a leading solicitude of the true gentleman was to detect clearly those "beneath" him, and to behave towards them in a proper spirit. "It's jest there it's so 'ard for me," said Kipps. He had to cultivate a certain "distance," to acquire altogether the art of checking the presumption of bounders and old friends. It was difficult, Coote admitted. "That's what, so harkward--I mean awkward." "I got mixed up with this lot 'ere," said Kipps. "You could give them a hint," said Coote. "'Ow?" "Oh!--the occasion will suggest something." The occasion came one early closing night when Kipps was sitting in a canopy chair near the bandstand, with his summer overcoat fully open and a new Gibus pulled slightly forward over his brow, waiting for Coote. They were to hear the band for an hour and then go down to assist Miss Coote and the freckled girl in trying over some of Beethoven's duets, if they remembered them, that is, sufficiently well. And as Kipps lounged back in his chair and occupied his mind with his favourite amusement on such evenings, which consisted chiefly in supposing that everyone about him was wondering who he was, came a rude rap at the canvas back and the voice of Pierce. "It's nice to be a gentleman," said Pierce, and swung a penny chair into position while Buggins appeared smiling agreeably on the other side and leant upon his stick. _He was smoking a common briar pipe!_ Two real ladies, very fashionably dressed and sitting close at hand, glanced quickly at Pierce, and then away again, and it was evident _their_ wonder was at an end. "_He's_ all right," said Buggins, removing his pipe and surveying Kipps. "'Ello, Buggins!" said Kipps, not too cordially. "'Ow goes it?" "All right. Holiday's next week. If you don't look out, Kipps, I shall be on the Continong before you. Eh?" "You going t' Boologne?" "Ra-ther. Parley vous Francey. You bet." "_I_ shall 'ave a bit of a run over there one of these days," said Kipps. There came a pause. Pierce applied the top of his stick to his mouth for a space and regarded Kipps. Then he glanced at the people about them. "I say, Kipps," he said in a distinct, loud voice, "see 'er Ladyship lately?" Kipps perceived the audience was to be impressed, but he responded half-heartedly, "No, I 'aven't," he said. "She was along of Sir William the other night," said Pierce, still loud and clear, "and she asked to be remembered to you." It seemed to Kipps that one of the two ladies smiled faintly and said something to the other, and then certainly they glanced at Pierce. Kipps flushed scarlet. "_Did_ she?" he answered. Buggins laughed good-humouredly over his pipe. "Sir William suffers a lot from his gout," Pierce continued unabashed. (Buggins much amused with his pipe between his teeth.) Kipps became aware of Coote at hand. Coote nodded rather distantly to Pierce. "Hope I haven't kept you waiting, Kipps," he said. "I kep' a chair for you," said Kipps and removed a guardian foot. "But you've got your friends," said Coote. "Oh! _we_ don't mind," said Pierce cordially, "the more the merrier," and, "why don't you get a chair, Buggins?" Buggins shook his head in a sort of aside to Pierce and Coote coughed behind his hand. "Been kep' late at business?" asked Pierce. Coote turned quite pale and pretended not to hear. His eyes sought in space for a time and with a convulsive movement he recognised a distant acquaintance and raised his hat. Pierce had also become a little pale. He addressed himself to Kipps in an undertone. "Mr. Coote, isn't he?" he asked. Coote addressed himself to Kipps directly and exclusively. His manner had the calm of extreme tension. "I'm rather late," he said. "I think we ought almost to be going on _now_." Kipps stood up. "That's all right," he said. "Which way are you going?" said Pierce, standing also, and brushing some crumbs of cigarette ash from his sleeve. For a moment Coote was breathless. "Thank you," he said, and gasped. Then he delivered the necessary blow; "I don't think we're in need of your society, you know," and turned away. Kipps found himself falling over chairs and things in the wake of Coote, and then they were clear of the crowd. For a space Coote said nothing; then he remarked abruptly and quite angrily for him, "I think that was _awful_ Cheek!" Kipps made no reply.... The whole thing was an interesting little object lesson in distance, and it stuck in the front of Kipps' mind for a long time. He had particularly vivid the face of Pierce, with an expression between astonishment and anger. He felt as though he had struck Pierce in the face under circumstances that gave Pierce no power to reply. He did not attend very much to the duets and even forgot at the end of one of them to say how perfectly lovely it was. 4 But you must not imagine that the national ideal of a gentleman, as Coote developed it, was all a matter of deportment and selectness, a mere isolation from debasing associations. There is a Serious Side, a deeper aspect of the true, True Gentleman. The True Gentleman does not wear his heart on his sleeve. He is a polished surface above deeps. For example, he is deeply religious, as Coote was, as Mrs. Walshingham was, but outside the walls of a church it never appears, except perhaps now and then in a pause, in a profound look, in a sudden avoidance. In quite a little while Kipps also had learnt the pause, the profound look, the sudden avoidance, that final refinement of spirituality, impressionistic piety. And the True Gentleman is patriotic also. When one saw Coote lifting his hat to the National Anthem, then perhaps one got a glimpse of what patriotic emotions, what worship, the polish of a gentleman may hide. Or singing out his deep notes against the Hosts of Midian, in the St. Stylites choir; then indeed you plumbed his spiritual side. Christian, dost thou heed them, On the holy ground, How the hosts of Mid-i-an, Prowl and prowl around! Christian, up and smai-it them.... But these were but gleams. For the rest, Religion, Nationality, Passion, Money, Politics; much more so those cardinal issues, Birth and Death, the True Gentleman skirted about, and became facially rigid towards and ceased to speak and panted and blew. "One doesn't talk of that sort of thing," Coote would say with a gesture of the knuckly hand. "O' course," Kipps would reply, with an equal significance. Profundities. Deep as it were, blowing to deep. One does not talk, but on the other hand one is punctilious to do. Actions speak. Kipps--in spite of the fact that the Walshinghams were more than a little lax--Kipps, who had formerly flitted Sunday after Sunday from one Folkestone church to another, had now a sitting of his own, paid for duly at Saint Stylites. There he was to be seen, always at the surplice evening service, and sometimes of a morning, dressed with a sober precision, and with an eye on Coote in the chancel. No difficulties now about finding the place in his book. He became a communicant again--he had lapsed soon after his confirmation when the young lady in the costume-room, who was his adopted sister, left the Emporium--and he would sometimes go around to the Vestry for Coote after the service. One evening he was introduced to the Hon. and Rev. Densemore. He was much too confused to say anything, and the noble cleric had nothing to say, but indisputably they were introduced.... No! you must not imagine our national ideal of a gentleman is without its "serious side," without even its stern and uncompromising side. The imagination no doubt refuses to see Coote displaying extraordinary refinements of courage upon the stricken field, but in the walks of peace there is sometimes sore need of sternness. Charitable as one may be, one must admit there are people who _do_ things, impossible things; people who place themselves "out of it" in countless ways; people, moreover, who are by a sort of predestination out of it from the beginning, and against these Society has invented a terrible protection for its Cootery, the Cut. The cut is no joke for anyone. It is excommunication. You may be cut by an individual, you may be cut by a set or you may be--and this is so tragic that beautiful romances have been written about it--"Cut by the County." One figures Coote discharging this last duty and cutting somebody--Coote, erect and pale, never speaking, going past with eyes of pitiless slate, lower jaw protruding a little, face pursed up and cold and stiff.... It never dawned upon Kipps that he would one day have to face this terrible front, to be to Coote not only as one dead, but as one gone more than a stage or so in decay, cut and passed, banned and outcast for ever. Yet so it was to be! One cannot hide any longer that all this fine progress of Kipps is doomed to end in collapse. So far indeed you have seen him ascend. You have seen him becoming more refined and careful day by day, more carefully dressed, less clumsy in the ways and methods of social life. You have seen the gulf widening between himself and his former low associates. I have brought you at last to the vision of him, faultlessly dressed and posed, in an atmosphere of candlelight and chanting, in his own sitting in one of the most fashionable churches in Folkestone.... All the time I have refrained from the lightest touch upon the tragic note that must now creep into my tale. Yet the net of his low connections has been about his feet, and moreover there was something interwoven in his being.... CHAPTER VI DISCORDS 1 One day Kipps set out upon his newly-mastered bicycle to New Romney to break the news of his engagement to his Uncle and Aunt--this time positively. He was now a finished cyclist, but as yet an unseasoned one; the southwest wind, even in its summer guise, as one meets it in the Marsh, is the equivalent of a reasonable hill, and ever and again he got off and refreshed himself by a spell of walking. He was walking just outside New Romney preparatory to his triumphal entry (one hand off) when abruptly he came upon Ann Pornick. It chanced he was thinking about her at the time. He had been thinking curious things; whether, after all, the atmosphere of New Romney and the Marsh had not some difference, some faint impalpable quality that was missing in the great and fashionable world of Folkestone behind there on the hill. Here there was a homeliness, a familiarity. He had noted as he passed that old Mr. Cliffordown's gate had been mended with a fresh piece of

theatrical

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

was a touch of motherliness in her feelings towards him. But his upbringing and his associations had been, she diagnosed, "awful." At New Romney she glanced but little; that was remote. But in her inventory--she went over him as one might go over a newly taken house, with impartial thoroughness--she discovered more proximate influences, surprising intimations of nocturnal "sing-songs"--she pictured it as almost shocking that Kipps should sing to the banjo--much low-grade wisdom treasured from a person called Buggins--"Who _is_ Buggins?" said Helen--vague figures of indisputable vulgarity, Pierce and Carshot, and more particularly, a very terrible social phenomenon, Chitterlow. Chitterlow blazed upon them with unheralded oppressive brilliance the first time they were abroad together. They were going along the front of the Leas to see a school play in Sandgate--at the last moment Mrs. Walshingham had been unable to come with them--when Chitterlow loomed up into the new world. He was wearing the suit of striped flannel and the straw hat that had followed Kipps' payment in advance for his course in elocution, his hands were deep in his side pockets and animated the corners of his jacket, and his attentive gaze at the passing loungers, the faint smile under his boldly drawn nose, showed him engaged in studying character--no doubt for some forthcoming play. "What HO!" said he, at the sight of Kipps, and swept off the straw hat with so ample a clutch of his great, flat hand that it suggested to Helen's startled mind a conjurer about to palm a half-penny. "'Ello, Chitt'low," said Kipps a little awkwardly and not saluting. Chitterlow hesitated. "Half a mo', my boy," he said, and arrested Kipps by extending a large hand over his chest. "Excuse me, my dear," he said, bowing like his Russian count by way of apology to Helen and with a smile that would have killed at a hundred yards. He affected a semi-confidential grouping of himself and Kipps while Helen stood in white amazement. "About that play," he said. "'Ow about it?" asked Kipps, acutely aware of Helen. "It's all right," said Chitterlow. "There's a strong smell of syndicate in the air, I may tell you--Strong." "That's aw right," said Kipps. "You needn't tell everybody," said Chitterlow with a transitory, confidential hand to his mouth, which pointed the application of the "everybody" just a trifle too strongly. "But I think it's coming off. However----. I mustn't detain you now. So long. You'll come 'round, eh?" "Right you are," said Kipps. "To-night?" "At eight." And then, and more in the manner of a Russian prince than any common count, Chitterlow bowed and withdrew. Just for a moment he allowed a conquering eye to challenge Helen's and noted her for a girl of quality.... There was a silence between our lovers for a space. "That," said Kipps with an allusive movement of the head, "was Chitterlow." "Is he--a friend of yours?" "In a way.... You see--I met 'im. Leastways 'e met me. Run into me with a bicycle, 'e did, and so we got talking together." He tried to appear at his ease. The young lady scrutinised his profile. "What is he?" "'E's a Nacter chap," said Kipps. "Leastways 'e writes plays." "And sells them?" "Partly." "Whom to?" "Different people. Shares he sells.... It's all right, reely--I meant to tell you about him before." Helen looked over her shoulder to catch a view of Chitterlow's retreating aspect. It did not compel her complete confidence. She turned to her lover and said in a tone of quiet authority, "You must tell me all about Chitterlow. Now." The explanation began.... The School Play came almost as a relief to Kipps. In the flusterment of going in he could almost forget for a time his Laocoon struggle to explain, and in the intervals he did his best to keep forgetting. But Helen, with a gentle insistence, resumed the explanation of Chitterlow as they returned towards Folkestone. Chitterlow was confoundedly difficult to explain. You could hardly imagine! There was an almost motherly anxiety in Helen's manner, blended with the resolution of a schoolmistress to get to the bottom of the affair. Kipps' ears were soon quite brightly red. "Have you seen one of his plays?" "'E's tole me about one." "But on the stage." "No. He 'asn't 'ad any on the stage yet. That's all coming...." "Promise me," she said in conclusion, "you won't do anything without consulting me." And of course Kipps promised. "Oo--no!" They went on their way in silence. "One can't know everybody," said Helen in general. "Of course," said Kipps; "in a sort of way it was him that helped me to my money." And he indicated in a confused manner the story of the advertisement. "I don't like to drop 'im all at once," he added. Helen was silent for a space, and when she spoke she went off at a tangent. "We shall live in London--soon," she remarked. "It's only while we are here." It was the first intimation she gave him of their post-nuptial prospects. "We shall have a nice little flat somewhere, not too far west, and there we shall build up a circle of our own." 2 All that declining summer Kipps was the pupil lover. He made an extraordinarily open secret of his desire for self-improvement; indeed Helen had to hint once or twice that his modest frankness was excessive, and all this new circle of friends did, each after his or her manner, everything that was possible to supplement Helen's efforts and help him to ease and skill in the more cultivated circles to which he had come. Coote was still the chief teacher, the tutor--there are so many little difficulties that a man may take to another man that he would not care to propound to the woman he loves--but they were all, so to speak, upon the staff. Even the freckled girl said to him once in a pleasant way, "You mustn't say "contre temps," you must say "contraytom,"" when he borrowed that expression from "Manners and Rules," and she tried at his own suggestion to give him clear ideas upon the subject of "as" and "has." A certain confusion between these words was becoming evident, the first fruits of a lesson from Chitterlow on the aspirate. Hitherto he had discarded that dangerous letter almost altogether, but now he would pull up at words beginning with "h" and draw a sawing breath--rather like a startled kitten--and then aspirate with vigour. Said Kipps one day, "_As_ 'e?--I should say, ah--Has 'e? Ye know I got a lot of difficulty over them two words, which is which?" "Well, 'as' is a conjunction and 'has' is a verb." "I know," said Kipps, "but when is 'has' a conjunction and when is 'as' a verb?" "Well," said the freckled girl, preparing to be very lucid. "It's _has_ when it means one has, meaning having, but if it isn't it's _as_. As for instance one says 'e--I mean _he_--He has. But one says 'as he has.'" "I see," said Kipps. "So I ought to say 'as 'e?'" "No, if you are asking a question you say _has_ 'e--I mean he--'as he?" She blushed quite brightly, but still clung to her air of lucidity. "I see," said Kipps. He was about to say something further, but he desisted. "I got it much clearer now. _Has_ 'e? _Has_ 'e as. Yes." "If you remember about having." "Oo I will," said Kipps. Miss Coote specialised in Kipps' artistic development. She had early found an opinion that he had considerable artistic sensibility, his remarks on her work had struck her as decidedly intelligent, and whenever he called around to see them she would show him some work of art, now an illustrated book, now perhaps a colour print of a Botticelli, now the Hundred Best Paintings, now "Academy Pictures," now a German art handbook and now some magazine of furniture and design. "I know you like these things," she used to say, and Kipps said, "Oo I _do_." He soon acquired a little armoury of appreciative sayings. When presently the Walshinghams took him up to the Arts and Crafts, his deportment was intelligent in the extreme. For a time he kept a wary silence and suddenly pitched upon a colour print. "That's rather nace," he said to Mrs. Walshingham. "That lill' thing. There." He always said things like that by preference to the mother rather than the daughter unless he was perfectly sure. He quite took to Mrs. Walshingham. He was impressed by her conspicuous tact and refinement; it seemed to him that the ladylike could go no further. She was always dressed with a delicate fussiness that was never disarranged and even a sort of faded quality about her hair and face and bearing and emotions contributed to her effect. Kipps was not a big man, and commonly he did not feel a big man, but with Mrs. Walshingham he always felt enormous and distended, as though he was a navvy who had taken some disagreeable poison which puffed him up inside his skin as a preliminary to bursting. He felt, too, as though he had been rolled in clay and his hair dressed with gum. And he felt that his voice was strident and his accent like somebody swinging a crowded pig's pail in a free and careless manner. All this increased and enforced his respect for her. Her hand, which flitted often and again to his hand and arm, was singularly well shaped and cool. "Arthur," she called him from the very beginning. She did not so much positively teach and tell him as tactfully guide and infect him. Her conversation was not so much didactic as exemplary. She would say, "I _do_ like people to do" so and so. She would tell him anecdotes of nice things done, of gentlemanly feats of graceful consideration; she would record her neat observations of people in trains and omnibuses; how, for example, a man had passed her change to the conductor, "quite a common man he looked," but he had lifted his hat. She stamped Kipps so deeply with the hat-raising habit that he would uncover if he found himself in the same railway ticket office with a lady had to stand ceremoniously until the difficulties of change drove him to an apologetic provisional oblique resumption of his headgear.... And robbing these things of any air of personal application, she threw about them an abundant talk about her two children--she called them her Twin Jewels quite frequently--about their gifts, their temperaments, their ambition, their need of opportunity. They needed opportunity, she would say, as other people needed air.... In his conversations with her Kipps always assumed, and she seemed to assume, that she was to join that home in London Helen foreshadowed, but he was surprised one day to gather that this was not to be the case. "It wouldn't do," said Helen, with decision. "We want to make a circle of our own." "But won't she be a bit lonely down here?" asked Kipps. "There's the Waces, and Mrs. Prebble and Mrs. Bindon Botting and--lots of people she knows." And Helen dismissed this possibility.... Young Walshingham's share in the educational syndicate was smaller. But he shone out when they went to London on that Arts and Crafts expedition. Then this rising man of affairs showed Kipps how to buy the more theatrical weeklies for consumption in the train, how to buy and what to buy in the way of cigarettes with gold tips and shilling cigars, and how to order hock for lunch and sparkling Moselle for dinner, how to calculate the fare of a hansom cab--penny a minute while he goes--how to look intelligently at an hotel tape, and how to sit still in a train like a thoughtful man instead of talking like a fool and giving yourself away. And he, too, would glance at the good time coming when they were to be in London for good and all. That prospect expanded and developed particulars. It presently took up a large part of Helen's conversation. Her conversations with Kipps were never of a grossly sentimental sort; there was a shyness of speech in that matter with both of them, but these new adumbrations were at least as interesting and not so directly disagreeable as the clear-cut intimations of personal defect that for a time had so greatly chastened Kipps' delight in her presence. The future presented itself with an almost perfect frankness as a joint campaign of Mrs. Walshingham's Twin Jewels upon the Great World, with Kipps in the capacity of baggage and supply. They would still be dreadfully poor, of course--this amazed Kipps, but he said nothing--until "Brudderkins" began to succeed, but if they were clever and lucky they might do a great deal. When Helen spoke of London a brooding look, as of one who contemplates a distant country, came into her eyes. Already it seemed they had the nucleus of a set. Brudderkins was a member of the Theatrical Judges, an excellent and influential little club of journalists and literary people, and he knew Shimer and Stargate and Whiffle, of the "Red Dragon," and besides these were the Revels. They knew the Revels quite well. Sidney Revel before his rapid rise to prominence as a writer of epigrammatic essays that were quite above the ordinary public, had been an assistant master at one of the best Folkestone schools, Brudderkins had brought him home to tea several times, and it was he had first suggested Helen should try and write. "It's perfectly easy," Sidney had said. He had been writing occasional things for the evening papers, and for the weekly reviews even at that time. Then he had gone up to London and had almost unavoidedly become a dramatic critic. Those brilliant essays had followed, and then "Red Hearts a-Beating," the romance that had made him. It was a tale of spirited adventure, full of youth and beauty and na ve passion and generous devotion, bold, as the _Bookman_ said, and frank in places, but never in the slightest degree morbid. He had met and married an American widow with quite a lot of money, and they had made a very distinct place for themselves, Kipps learnt, in the literary and artistic society of London. Helen seemed to dwell on the Revels a great deal; it was her exemplary story, and when she spoke of Sidney--she often called him Sidney--she would become thoughtful. She spoke most of him naturally because she had still to meet Mrs. Revel.... Certainly they would be in the world in no time, even if the distant connection with the Beaupres family came to nothing. Kipps gathered that with his marriage and the movement to London they were to undergo that subtle change of name Coote had first adumbrated. They were to become "Cuyps," Mr. and Mrs. Cuyps. Or, was it Cuyp? "It'll be rum at first," said Kipps. "I dessay I shall soon get into it."... So in their several ways they all contributed to enlarge and refine and exercise the intelligence of Kipps. And behind all these other influences, and, as it were, presiding over and correcting these influences, was Kipps' nearest friend, Coote, a sort of master of the ceremonies. You figure his face, blowing slightly with solicitude, his slate coloured, projecting but not unkindly eye intent upon our hero. The thing he thought was going off admirably. He studied Kipps' character immensely. He would discuss him with his sister, with Mrs. Walshingham, with the freckled girl, with anyone who would stand it. "He is an interesting character," he would say, "likable--a sort of gentleman by instinct. He takes to all these things. He improves every day. He'll soon get Sang Froid. We took him up just in time. He wants now--well----. Next year, perhaps, if there is a good Extension Literature course, he might go in for it. He wants to go in for something like that." "He's going in for his bicycle now," said Mrs. Walshingham. "That's all right for summer," said Coote, "but he wants to go in for some serious, intellectual interest, something to take him out of himself a little more. Savoir Faire and self-forgetfulness is more than half the secret of Sang Froid." 3 The world as Coote presented it was in part an endorsement, in part an amplification and in part a rectification of the world of Kipps, the world that derived from the old couple in New Romney and had been developed in the Emporium; the world, in fact, of common British life. There was the same subtle sense of social graduation that had moved Mrs. Kipps to prohibit intercourse with labourers' children and the same dread of anything "common" that had kept the personal quality of Mr. Shalford's establishment so high. But now a certain disagreeable doubt about Kipps' own position was removed and he stood with Coote inside the sphere of gentlemen assured. Within the sphere of gentlemen there are distinctions of rank indeed, but none of class; there are the Big People and the modest, refined, gentlemanly little people like Coote, who may even dabble in the professions and counterless trades; there are lords and magnificences, and there are gentle folk who have to manage, but they can all call on one another, they preserve a general equality of deportment throughout, they constitute that great state within the state, Society, or at any rate they make believe they do. "But reely," said the Pupil, "not what you call being in Society?" "Yes," said Coote. "Of course, down here one doesn't see much of it, but there's local society. It has the same rules." "Calling and all that?" "Precisely," said Coote. Kipps thought, whistled a bar, and suddenly broached a question of conscience. "I often wonder," he said, "whether I oughtn't to dress for dinner--when I'm alone 'ere." Coote protruded his lips and reflected. "Not full dress," he adjudicated; "that would be a little excessive. But you should _change_, you know. Put on a mess jacket and that sort of thing--easy dress. That is what _I_ should do, certainly, if I wasn't in harness--and poor." He coughed modestly and patted his hair behind. And after that the washing bill of Kipps quadrupled, and he was to be seen at times by the bandstand with his light summer overcoat unbuttoned to give a glimpse of his nice white tie. He and Coote would be smoking the gold-tipped cigarettes young Walshingham had prescribed as _chic_, and appreciating the music highly. "That's--puff--a very nice bit," Kipps would say, or better, "That's nace." And at the first grunts of the loyal anthem up they stood with religiously uplifted hats. Whatever else you might call them, you could never call them disloyal. The boundary of Society was admittedly very close to Coote and Kipps, and a leading solicitude of the true gentleman was to detect clearly those "beneath" him, and to behave towards them in a proper spirit. "It's jest there it's so 'ard for me," said Kipps. He had to cultivate a certain "distance," to acquire altogether the art of checking the presumption of bounders and old friends. It was difficult, Coote admitted. "That's what, so harkward--I mean awkward." "I got mixed up with this lot 'ere," said Kipps. "You could give them a hint," said Coote. "'Ow?" "Oh!--the occasion will suggest something." The occasion came one early closing night when Kipps was sitting in a canopy chair near the bandstand, with his summer overcoat fully open and a new Gibus pulled slightly forward over his brow, waiting for Coote. They were to hear the band for an hour and then go down to assist Miss Coote and the freckled girl in trying over some of Beethoven's duets, if they remembered them, that is, sufficiently well. And as Kipps lounged back in his chair and occupied his mind with his favourite amusement on such evenings, which consisted chiefly in supposing that everyone about him was wondering who he was, came a rude rap at the canvas back and the voice of Pierce. "It's nice to be a gentleman," said Pierce, and swung a penny chair into position while Buggins appeared smiling agreeably on the other side and leant upon his stick. _He was smoking a common briar pipe!_ Two real ladies, very fashionably dressed and sitting close at hand, glanced quickly at Pierce, and then away again, and it was evident _their_ wonder was at an end. "_He's_ all right," said Buggins, removing his pipe and surveying Kipps. "'Ello, Buggins!" said Kipps, not too cordially. "'Ow goes it?" "All right. Holiday's next week. If you don't look out, Kipps, I shall be on the Continong before you. Eh?" "You going t' Boologne?" "Ra-ther. Parley vous Francey. You bet." "_I_ shall 'ave a bit of a run over there one of these days," said Kipps. There came a pause. Pierce applied the top of his stick to his mouth for a space and regarded Kipps. Then he glanced at the people about them. "I say, Kipps," he said in a distinct, loud voice, "see 'er Ladyship lately?" Kipps perceived the audience was to be impressed, but he responded half-heartedly, "No, I 'aven't," he said. "She was along of Sir William the other night," said Pierce, still loud and clear, "and she asked to be remembered to you." It seemed to Kipps that one of the two ladies smiled faintly and said something to the other, and then certainly they glanced at Pierce. Kipps flushed scarlet. "_Did_ she?" he answered. Buggins laughed good-humouredly over his pipe. "Sir William suffers a lot from his gout," Pierce continued unabashed. (Buggins much amused with his pipe between his teeth.) Kipps became aware of Coote at hand. Coote nodded rather distantly to Pierce. "Hope I haven't kept you waiting, Kipps," he said. "I kep' a chair for you," said Kipps and removed a guardian foot. "But you've got your friends," said Coote. "Oh! _we_ don't mind," said Pierce cordially, "the more the merrier," and, "why don't you get a chair, Buggins?" Buggins shook his head in a sort of aside to Pierce and Coote coughed behind his hand. "Been kep' late at business?" asked Pierce. Coote turned quite pale and pretended not to hear. His eyes sought in space for a time and with a convulsive movement he recognised a distant acquaintance and raised his hat. Pierce had also become a little pale. He addressed himself to Kipps in an undertone. "Mr. Coote, isn't he?" he asked. Coote addressed himself to Kipps directly and exclusively. His manner had the calm of extreme tension. "I'm rather late," he said. "I think we ought almost to be going on _now_." Kipps stood up. "That's all right," he said. "Which way are you going?" said Pierce, standing also, and brushing some crumbs of cigarette ash from his sleeve. For a moment Coote was breathless. "Thank you," he said, and gasped. Then he delivered the necessary blow; "I don't think we're in need of your society, you know," and turned away. Kipps found himself falling over chairs and things in the wake of Coote, and then they were clear of the crowd. For a space Coote said nothing; then he remarked abruptly and quite angrily for him, "I think that was _awful_ Cheek!" Kipps made no reply.... The whole thing was an interesting little object lesson in distance, and it stuck in the front of Kipps' mind for a long time. He had particularly vivid the face of Pierce, with an expression between astonishment and anger. He felt as though he had struck Pierce in the face under circumstances that gave Pierce no power to reply. He did not attend very much to the duets and even forgot at the end of one of them to say how perfectly lovely it was. 4 But you must not imagine that the national ideal of a gentleman, as Coote developed it, was all a matter of deportment and selectness, a mere isolation from debasing associations. There is a Serious Side, a deeper aspect of the true, True Gentleman. The True Gentleman does not wear his heart on his sleeve. He is a polished surface above deeps. For example, he is deeply religious, as Coote was, as Mrs. Walshingham was, but outside the walls of a church it never appears, except perhaps now and then in a pause, in a profound look, in a sudden avoidance. In quite a little while Kipps also had learnt the pause, the profound look, the sudden avoidance, that final refinement of spirituality, impressionistic piety. And the True Gentleman is patriotic also. When one saw Coote lifting his hat to the National Anthem, then perhaps one got a glimpse of what patriotic emotions, what worship, the polish of a gentleman may hide. Or singing out his deep notes against the Hosts of Midian, in the St. Stylites choir; then indeed you plumbed his spiritual side. Christian, dost thou heed them, On the holy ground, How the hosts of Mid-i-an, Prowl and prowl around! Christian, up and smai-it them.... But these were but gleams. For the rest, Religion, Nationality, Passion, Money, Politics; much more so those cardinal issues, Birth and Death, the True Gentleman skirted about, and became facially rigid towards and ceased to speak and panted and blew. "One doesn't talk of that sort of thing," Coote would say with a gesture of the knuckly hand. "O' course," Kipps would reply, with an equal significance. Profundities. Deep as it were, blowing to deep. One does not talk, but on the other hand one is punctilious to do. Actions speak. Kipps--in spite of the fact that the Walshinghams were more than a little lax--Kipps, who had formerly flitted Sunday after Sunday from one Folkestone church to another, had now a sitting of his own, paid for duly at Saint Stylites. There he was to be seen, always at the surplice evening service, and sometimes of a morning, dressed with a sober precision, and with an eye on Coote in the chancel. No difficulties now about finding the place in his book. He became a communicant again--he had lapsed soon after his confirmation when the young lady in the costume-room, who was his adopted sister, left the Emporium--and he would sometimes go around to the Vestry for Coote after the service. One evening he was introduced to the Hon. and Rev. Densemore. He was much too confused to say anything, and the noble cleric had nothing to say, but indisputably they were introduced.... No! you must not imagine our national ideal of a gentleman is without its "serious side," without even its stern and uncompromising side. The imagination no doubt refuses to see Coote displaying extraordinary refinements of courage upon the stricken field, but in the walks of peace there is sometimes sore need of sternness. Charitable as one may be, one must admit there are people who _do_ things, impossible things; people who place themselves "out of it" in countless ways; people, moreover, who are by a sort of predestination out of it from the beginning, and against these Society has invented a terrible protection for its Cootery, the Cut. The cut is no joke for anyone. It is excommunication. You may be cut by an individual, you may be cut by a set or you may be--and this is so tragic that beautiful romances have been written about it--"Cut by the County." One figures Coote discharging this last duty and cutting somebody--Coote, erect and pale, never speaking, going past with eyes of pitiless slate, lower jaw protruding a little, face pursed up and cold and stiff.... It never dawned upon Kipps that he would one day have to face this terrible front, to be to Coote not only as one dead, but as one gone more than a stage or so in decay, cut and passed, banned and outcast for ever. Yet so it was to be! One cannot hide any longer that all this fine progress of Kipps is doomed to end in collapse. So far indeed you have seen him ascend. You have seen him becoming more refined and careful day by day, more carefully dressed, less clumsy in the ways and methods of social life. You have seen the gulf widening between himself and his former low associates. I have brought you at last to the vision of him, faultlessly dressed and posed, in an atmosphere of candlelight and chanting, in his own sitting in one of the most fashionable churches in Folkestone.... All the time I have refrained from the lightest touch upon the tragic note that must now creep into my tale. Yet the net of his low connections has been about his feet, and moreover there was something interwoven in his being.... CHAPTER VI DISCORDS 1 One day Kipps set out upon his newly-mastered bicycle to New Romney to break the news of his engagement to his Uncle and Aunt--this time positively. He was now a finished cyclist, but as yet an unseasoned one; the southwest wind, even in its summer guise, as one meets it in the Marsh, is the equivalent of a reasonable hill, and ever and again he got off and refreshed himself by a spell of walking. He was walking just outside New Romney preparatory to his triumphal entry (one hand off) when abruptly he came upon Ann Pornick. It chanced he was thinking about her at the time. He had been thinking curious things; whether, after all, the atmosphere of New Romney and the Marsh had not some difference, some faint impalpable quality that was missing in the great and fashionable world of Folkestone behind there on the hill. Here there was a homeliness, a familiarity. He had noted as he passed that old Mr. Cliffordown's gate had been mended with a fresh piece of

drove

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

was a touch of motherliness in her feelings towards him. But his upbringing and his associations had been, she diagnosed, "awful." At New Romney she glanced but little; that was remote. But in her inventory--she went over him as one might go over a newly taken house, with impartial thoroughness--she discovered more proximate influences, surprising intimations of nocturnal "sing-songs"--she pictured it as almost shocking that Kipps should sing to the banjo--much low-grade wisdom treasured from a person called Buggins--"Who _is_ Buggins?" said Helen--vague figures of indisputable vulgarity, Pierce and Carshot, and more particularly, a very terrible social phenomenon, Chitterlow. Chitterlow blazed upon them with unheralded oppressive brilliance the first time they were abroad together. They were going along the front of the Leas to see a school play in Sandgate--at the last moment Mrs. Walshingham had been unable to come with them--when Chitterlow loomed up into the new world. He was wearing the suit of striped flannel and the straw hat that had followed Kipps' payment in advance for his course in elocution, his hands were deep in his side pockets and animated the corners of his jacket, and his attentive gaze at the passing loungers, the faint smile under his boldly drawn nose, showed him engaged in studying character--no doubt for some forthcoming play. "What HO!" said he, at the sight of Kipps, and swept off the straw hat with so ample a clutch of his great, flat hand that it suggested to Helen's startled mind a conjurer about to palm a half-penny. "'Ello, Chitt'low," said Kipps a little awkwardly and not saluting. Chitterlow hesitated. "Half a mo', my boy," he said, and arrested Kipps by extending a large hand over his chest. "Excuse me, my dear," he said, bowing like his Russian count by way of apology to Helen and with a smile that would have killed at a hundred yards. He affected a semi-confidential grouping of himself and Kipps while Helen stood in white amazement. "About that play," he said. "'Ow about it?" asked Kipps, acutely aware of Helen. "It's all right," said Chitterlow. "There's a strong smell of syndicate in the air, I may tell you--Strong." "That's aw right," said Kipps. "You needn't tell everybody," said Chitterlow with a transitory, confidential hand to his mouth, which pointed the application of the "everybody" just a trifle too strongly. "But I think it's coming off. However----. I mustn't detain you now. So long. You'll come 'round, eh?" "Right you are," said Kipps. "To-night?" "At eight." And then, and more in the manner of a Russian prince than any common count, Chitterlow bowed and withdrew. Just for a moment he allowed a conquering eye to challenge Helen's and noted her for a girl of quality.... There was a silence between our lovers for a space. "That," said Kipps with an allusive movement of the head, "was Chitterlow." "Is he--a friend of yours?" "In a way.... You see--I met 'im. Leastways 'e met me. Run into me with a bicycle, 'e did, and so we got talking together." He tried to appear at his ease. The young lady scrutinised his profile. "What is he?" "'E's a Nacter chap," said Kipps. "Leastways 'e writes plays." "And sells them?" "Partly." "Whom to?" "Different people. Shares he sells.... It's all right, reely--I meant to tell you about him before." Helen looked over her shoulder to catch a view of Chitterlow's retreating aspect. It did not compel her complete confidence. She turned to her lover and said in a tone of quiet authority, "You must tell me all about Chitterlow. Now." The explanation began.... The School Play came almost as a relief to Kipps. In the flusterment of going in he could almost forget for a time his Laocoon struggle to explain, and in the intervals he did his best to keep forgetting. But Helen, with a gentle insistence, resumed the explanation of Chitterlow as they returned towards Folkestone. Chitterlow was confoundedly difficult to explain. You could hardly imagine! There was an almost motherly anxiety in Helen's manner, blended with the resolution of a schoolmistress to get to the bottom of the affair. Kipps' ears were soon quite brightly red. "Have you seen one of his plays?" "'E's tole me about one." "But on the stage." "No. He 'asn't 'ad any on the stage yet. That's all coming...." "Promise me," she said in conclusion, "you won't do anything without consulting me." And of course Kipps promised. "Oo--no!" They went on their way in silence. "One can't know everybody," said Helen in general. "Of course," said Kipps; "in a sort of way it was him that helped me to my money." And he indicated in a confused manner the story of the advertisement. "I don't like to drop 'im all at once," he added. Helen was silent for a space, and when she spoke she went off at a tangent. "We shall live in London--soon," she remarked. "It's only while we are here." It was the first intimation she gave him of their post-nuptial prospects. "We shall have a nice little flat somewhere, not too far west, and there we shall build up a circle of our own." 2 All that declining summer Kipps was the pupil lover. He made an extraordinarily open secret of his desire for self-improvement; indeed Helen had to hint once or twice that his modest frankness was excessive, and all this new circle of friends did, each after his or her manner, everything that was possible to supplement Helen's efforts and help him to ease and skill in the more cultivated circles to which he had come. Coote was still the chief teacher, the tutor--there are so many little difficulties that a man may take to another man that he would not care to propound to the woman he loves--but they were all, so to speak, upon the staff. Even the freckled girl said to him once in a pleasant way, "You mustn't say "contre temps," you must say "contraytom,"" when he borrowed that expression from "Manners and Rules," and she tried at his own suggestion to give him clear ideas upon the subject of "as" and "has." A certain confusion between these words was becoming evident, the first fruits of a lesson from Chitterlow on the aspirate. Hitherto he had discarded that dangerous letter almost altogether, but now he would pull up at words beginning with "h" and draw a sawing breath--rather like a startled kitten--and then aspirate with vigour. Said Kipps one day, "_As_ 'e?--I should say, ah--Has 'e? Ye know I got a lot of difficulty over them two words, which is which?" "Well, 'as' is a conjunction and 'has' is a verb." "I know," said Kipps, "but when is 'has' a conjunction and when is 'as' a verb?" "Well," said the freckled girl, preparing to be very lucid. "It's _has_ when it means one has, meaning having, but if it isn't it's _as_. As for instance one says 'e--I mean _he_--He has. But one says 'as he has.'" "I see," said Kipps. "So I ought to say 'as 'e?'" "No, if you are asking a question you say _has_ 'e--I mean he--'as he?" She blushed quite brightly, but still clung to her air of lucidity. "I see," said Kipps. He was about to say something further, but he desisted. "I got it much clearer now. _Has_ 'e? _Has_ 'e as. Yes." "If you remember about having." "Oo I will," said Kipps. Miss Coote specialised in Kipps' artistic development. She had early found an opinion that he had considerable artistic sensibility, his remarks on her work had struck her as decidedly intelligent, and whenever he called around to see them she would show him some work of art, now an illustrated book, now perhaps a colour print of a Botticelli, now the Hundred Best Paintings, now "Academy Pictures," now a German art handbook and now some magazine of furniture and design. "I know you like these things," she used to say, and Kipps said, "Oo I _do_." He soon acquired a little armoury of appreciative sayings. When presently the Walshinghams took him up to the Arts and Crafts, his deportment was intelligent in the extreme. For a time he kept a wary silence and suddenly pitched upon a colour print. "That's rather nace," he said to Mrs. Walshingham. "That lill' thing. There." He always said things like that by preference to the mother rather than the daughter unless he was perfectly sure. He quite took to Mrs. Walshingham. He was impressed by her conspicuous tact and refinement; it seemed to him that the ladylike could go no further. She was always dressed with a delicate fussiness that was never disarranged and even a sort of faded quality about her hair and face and bearing and emotions contributed to her effect. Kipps was not a big man, and commonly he did not feel a big man, but with Mrs. Walshingham he always felt enormous and distended, as though he was a navvy who had taken some disagreeable poison which puffed him up inside his skin as a preliminary to bursting. He felt, too, as though he had been rolled in clay and his hair dressed with gum. And he felt that his voice was strident and his accent like somebody swinging a crowded pig's pail in a free and careless manner. All this increased and enforced his respect for her. Her hand, which flitted often and again to his hand and arm, was singularly well shaped and cool. "Arthur," she called him from the very beginning. She did not so much positively teach and tell him as tactfully guide and infect him. Her conversation was not so much didactic as exemplary. She would say, "I _do_ like people to do" so and so. She would tell him anecdotes of nice things done, of gentlemanly feats of graceful consideration; she would record her neat observations of people in trains and omnibuses; how, for example, a man had passed her change to the conductor, "quite a common man he looked," but he had lifted his hat. She stamped Kipps so deeply with the hat-raising habit that he would uncover if he found himself in the same railway ticket office with a lady had to stand ceremoniously until the difficulties of change drove him to an apologetic provisional oblique resumption of his headgear.... And robbing these things of any air of personal application, she threw about them an abundant talk about her two children--she called them her Twin Jewels quite frequently--about their gifts, their temperaments, their ambition, their need of opportunity. They needed opportunity, she would say, as other people needed air.... In his conversations with her Kipps always assumed, and she seemed to assume, that she was to join that home in London Helen foreshadowed, but he was surprised one day to gather that this was not to be the case. "It wouldn't do," said Helen, with decision. "We want to make a circle of our own." "But won't she be a bit lonely down here?" asked Kipps. "There's the Waces, and Mrs. Prebble and Mrs. Bindon Botting and--lots of people she knows." And Helen dismissed this possibility.... Young Walshingham's share in the educational syndicate was smaller. But he shone out when they went to London on that Arts and Crafts expedition. Then this rising man of affairs showed Kipps how to buy the more theatrical weeklies for consumption in the train, how to buy and what to buy in the way of cigarettes with gold tips and shilling cigars, and how to order hock for lunch and sparkling Moselle for dinner, how to calculate the fare of a hansom cab--penny a minute while he goes--how to look intelligently at an hotel tape, and how to sit still in a train like a thoughtful man instead of talking like a fool and giving yourself away. And he, too, would glance at the good time coming when they were to be in London for good and all. That prospect expanded and developed particulars. It presently took up a large part of Helen's conversation. Her conversations with Kipps were never of a grossly sentimental sort; there was a shyness of speech in that matter with both of them, but these new adumbrations were at least as interesting and not so directly disagreeable as the clear-cut intimations of personal defect that for a time had so greatly chastened Kipps' delight in her presence. The future presented itself with an almost perfect frankness as a joint campaign of Mrs. Walshingham's Twin Jewels upon the Great World, with Kipps in the capacity of baggage and supply. They would still be dreadfully poor, of course--this amazed Kipps, but he said nothing--until "Brudderkins" began to succeed, but if they were clever and lucky they might do a great deal. When Helen spoke of London a brooding look, as of one who contemplates a distant country, came into her eyes. Already it seemed they had the nucleus of a set. Brudderkins was a member of the Theatrical Judges, an excellent and influential little club of journalists and literary people, and he knew Shimer and Stargate and Whiffle, of the "Red Dragon," and besides these were the Revels. They knew the Revels quite well. Sidney Revel before his rapid rise to prominence as a writer of epigrammatic essays that were quite above the ordinary public, had been an assistant master at one of the best Folkestone schools, Brudderkins had brought him home to tea several times, and it was he had first suggested Helen should try and write. "It's perfectly easy," Sidney had said. He had been writing occasional things for the evening papers, and for the weekly reviews even at that time. Then he had gone up to London and had almost unavoidedly become a dramatic critic. Those brilliant essays had followed, and then "Red Hearts a-Beating," the romance that had made him. It was a tale of spirited adventure, full of youth and beauty and na ve passion and generous devotion, bold, as the _Bookman_ said, and frank in places, but never in the slightest degree morbid. He had met and married an American widow with quite a lot of money, and they had made a very distinct place for themselves, Kipps learnt, in the literary and artistic society of London. Helen seemed to dwell on the Revels a great deal; it was her exemplary story, and when she spoke of Sidney--she often called him Sidney--she would become thoughtful. She spoke most of him naturally because she had still to meet Mrs. Revel.... Certainly they would be in the world in no time, even if the distant connection with the Beaupres family came to nothing. Kipps gathered that with his marriage and the movement to London they were to undergo that subtle change of name Coote had first adumbrated. They were to become "Cuyps," Mr. and Mrs. Cuyps. Or, was it Cuyp? "It'll be rum at first," said Kipps. "I dessay I shall soon get into it."... So in their several ways they all contributed to enlarge and refine and exercise the intelligence of Kipps. And behind all these other influences, and, as it were, presiding over and correcting these influences, was Kipps' nearest friend, Coote, a sort of master of the ceremonies. You figure his face, blowing slightly with solicitude, his slate coloured, projecting but not unkindly eye intent upon our hero. The thing he thought was going off admirably. He studied Kipps' character immensely. He would discuss him with his sister, with Mrs. Walshingham, with the freckled girl, with anyone who would stand it. "He is an interesting character," he would say, "likable--a sort of gentleman by instinct. He takes to all these things. He improves every day. He'll soon get Sang Froid. We took him up just in time. He wants now--well----. Next year, perhaps, if there is a good Extension Literature course, he might go in for it. He wants to go in for something like that." "He's going in for his bicycle now," said Mrs. Walshingham. "That's all right for summer," said Coote, "but he wants to go in for some serious, intellectual interest, something to take him out of himself a little more. Savoir Faire and self-forgetfulness is more than half the secret of Sang Froid." 3 The world as Coote presented it was in part an endorsement, in part an amplification and in part a rectification of the world of Kipps, the world that derived from the old couple in New Romney and had been developed in the Emporium; the world, in fact, of common British life. There was the same subtle sense of social graduation that had moved Mrs. Kipps to prohibit intercourse with labourers' children and the same dread of anything "common" that had kept the personal quality of Mr. Shalford's establishment so high. But now a certain disagreeable doubt about Kipps' own position was removed and he stood with Coote inside the sphere of gentlemen assured. Within the sphere of gentlemen there are distinctions of rank indeed, but none of class; there are the Big People and the modest, refined, gentlemanly little people like Coote, who may even dabble in the professions and counterless trades; there are lords and magnificences, and there are gentle folk who have to manage, but they can all call on one another, they preserve a general equality of deportment throughout, they constitute that great state within the state, Society, or at any rate they make believe they do. "But reely," said the Pupil, "not what you call being in Society?" "Yes," said Coote. "Of course, down here one doesn't see much of it, but there's local society. It has the same rules." "Calling and all that?" "Precisely," said Coote. Kipps thought, whistled a bar, and suddenly broached a question of conscience. "I often wonder," he said, "whether I oughtn't to dress for dinner--when I'm alone 'ere." Coote protruded his lips and reflected. "Not full dress," he adjudicated; "that would be a little excessive. But you should _change_, you know. Put on a mess jacket and that sort of thing--easy dress. That is what _I_ should do, certainly, if I wasn't in harness--and poor." He coughed modestly and patted his hair behind. And after that the washing bill of Kipps quadrupled, and he was to be seen at times by the bandstand with his light summer overcoat unbuttoned to give a glimpse of his nice white tie. He and Coote would be smoking the gold-tipped cigarettes young Walshingham had prescribed as _chic_, and appreciating the music highly. "That's--puff--a very nice bit," Kipps would say, or better, "That's nace." And at the first grunts of the loyal anthem up they stood with religiously uplifted hats. Whatever else you might call them, you could never call them disloyal. The boundary of Society was admittedly very close to Coote and Kipps, and a leading solicitude of the true gentleman was to detect clearly those "beneath" him, and to behave towards them in a proper spirit. "It's jest there it's so 'ard for me," said Kipps. He had to cultivate a certain "distance," to acquire altogether the art of checking the presumption of bounders and old friends. It was difficult, Coote admitted. "That's what, so harkward--I mean awkward." "I got mixed up with this lot 'ere," said Kipps. "You could give them a hint," said Coote. "'Ow?" "Oh!--the occasion will suggest something." The occasion came one early closing night when Kipps was sitting in a canopy chair near the bandstand, with his summer overcoat fully open and a new Gibus pulled slightly forward over his brow, waiting for Coote. They were to hear the band for an hour and then go down to assist Miss Coote and the freckled girl in trying over some of Beethoven's duets, if they remembered them, that is, sufficiently well. And as Kipps lounged back in his chair and occupied his mind with his favourite amusement on such evenings, which consisted chiefly in supposing that everyone about him was wondering who he was, came a rude rap at the canvas back and the voice of Pierce. "It's nice to be a gentleman," said Pierce, and swung a penny chair into position while Buggins appeared smiling agreeably on the other side and leant upon his stick. _He was smoking a common briar pipe!_ Two real ladies, very fashionably dressed and sitting close at hand, glanced quickly at Pierce, and then away again, and it was evident _their_ wonder was at an end. "_He's_ all right," said Buggins, removing his pipe and surveying Kipps. "'Ello, Buggins!" said Kipps, not too cordially. "'Ow goes it?" "All right. Holiday's next week. If you don't look out, Kipps, I shall be on the Continong before you. Eh?" "You going t' Boologne?" "Ra-ther. Parley vous Francey. You bet." "_I_ shall 'ave a bit of a run over there one of these days," said Kipps. There came a pause. Pierce applied the top of his stick to his mouth for a space and regarded Kipps. Then he glanced at the people about them. "I say, Kipps," he said in a distinct, loud voice, "see 'er Ladyship lately?" Kipps perceived the audience was to be impressed, but he responded half-heartedly, "No, I 'aven't," he said. "She was along of Sir William the other night," said Pierce, still loud and clear, "and she asked to be remembered to you." It seemed to Kipps that one of the two ladies smiled faintly and said something to the other, and then certainly they glanced at Pierce. Kipps flushed scarlet. "_Did_ she?" he answered. Buggins laughed good-humouredly over his pipe. "Sir William suffers a lot from his gout," Pierce continued unabashed. (Buggins much amused with his pipe between his teeth.) Kipps became aware of Coote at hand. Coote nodded rather distantly to Pierce. "Hope I haven't kept you waiting, Kipps," he said. "I kep' a chair for you," said Kipps and removed a guardian foot. "But you've got your friends," said Coote. "Oh! _we_ don't mind," said Pierce cordially, "the more the merrier," and, "why don't you get a chair, Buggins?" Buggins shook his head in a sort of aside to Pierce and Coote coughed behind his hand. "Been kep' late at business?" asked Pierce. Coote turned quite pale and pretended not to hear. His eyes sought in space for a time and with a convulsive movement he recognised a distant acquaintance and raised his hat. Pierce had also become a little pale. He addressed himself to Kipps in an undertone. "Mr. Coote, isn't he?" he asked. Coote addressed himself to Kipps directly and exclusively. His manner had the calm of extreme tension. "I'm rather late," he said. "I think we ought almost to be going on _now_." Kipps stood up. "That's all right," he said. "Which way are you going?" said Pierce, standing also, and brushing some crumbs of cigarette ash from his sleeve. For a moment Coote was breathless. "Thank you," he said, and gasped. Then he delivered the necessary blow; "I don't think we're in need of your society, you know," and turned away. Kipps found himself falling over chairs and things in the wake of Coote, and then they were clear of the crowd. For a space Coote said nothing; then he remarked abruptly and quite angrily for him, "I think that was _awful_ Cheek!" Kipps made no reply.... The whole thing was an interesting little object lesson in distance, and it stuck in the front of Kipps' mind for a long time. He had particularly vivid the face of Pierce, with an expression between astonishment and anger. He felt as though he had struck Pierce in the face under circumstances that gave Pierce no power to reply. He did not attend very much to the duets and even forgot at the end of one of them to say how perfectly lovely it was. 4 But you must not imagine that the national ideal of a gentleman, as Coote developed it, was all a matter of deportment and selectness, a mere isolation from debasing associations. There is a Serious Side, a deeper aspect of the true, True Gentleman. The True Gentleman does not wear his heart on his sleeve. He is a polished surface above deeps. For example, he is deeply religious, as Coote was, as Mrs. Walshingham was, but outside the walls of a church it never appears, except perhaps now and then in a pause, in a profound look, in a sudden avoidance. In quite a little while Kipps also had learnt the pause, the profound look, the sudden avoidance, that final refinement of spirituality, impressionistic piety. And the True Gentleman is patriotic also. When one saw Coote lifting his hat to the National Anthem, then perhaps one got a glimpse of what patriotic emotions, what worship, the polish of a gentleman may hide. Or singing out his deep notes against the Hosts of Midian, in the St. Stylites choir; then indeed you plumbed his spiritual side. Christian, dost thou heed them, On the holy ground, How the hosts of Mid-i-an, Prowl and prowl around! Christian, up and smai-it them.... But these were but gleams. For the rest, Religion, Nationality, Passion, Money, Politics; much more so those cardinal issues, Birth and Death, the True Gentleman skirted about, and became facially rigid towards and ceased to speak and panted and blew. "One doesn't talk of that sort of thing," Coote would say with a gesture of the knuckly hand. "O' course," Kipps would reply, with an equal significance. Profundities. Deep as it were, blowing to deep. One does not talk, but on the other hand one is punctilious to do. Actions speak. Kipps--in spite of the fact that the Walshinghams were more than a little lax--Kipps, who had formerly flitted Sunday after Sunday from one Folkestone church to another, had now a sitting of his own, paid for duly at Saint Stylites. There he was to be seen, always at the surplice evening service, and sometimes of a morning, dressed with a sober precision, and with an eye on Coote in the chancel. No difficulties now about finding the place in his book. He became a communicant again--he had lapsed soon after his confirmation when the young lady in the costume-room, who was his adopted sister, left the Emporium--and he would sometimes go around to the Vestry for Coote after the service. One evening he was introduced to the Hon. and Rev. Densemore. He was much too confused to say anything, and the noble cleric had nothing to say, but indisputably they were introduced.... No! you must not imagine our national ideal of a gentleman is without its "serious side," without even its stern and uncompromising side. The imagination no doubt refuses to see Coote displaying extraordinary refinements of courage upon the stricken field, but in the walks of peace there is sometimes sore need of sternness. Charitable as one may be, one must admit there are people who _do_ things, impossible things; people who place themselves "out of it" in countless ways; people, moreover, who are by a sort of predestination out of it from the beginning, and against these Society has invented a terrible protection for its Cootery, the Cut. The cut is no joke for anyone. It is excommunication. You may be cut by an individual, you may be cut by a set or you may be--and this is so tragic that beautiful romances have been written about it--"Cut by the County." One figures Coote discharging this last duty and cutting somebody--Coote, erect and pale, never speaking, going past with eyes of pitiless slate, lower jaw protruding a little, face pursed up and cold and stiff.... It never dawned upon Kipps that he would one day have to face this terrible front, to be to Coote not only as one dead, but as one gone more than a stage or so in decay, cut and passed, banned and outcast for ever. Yet so it was to be! One cannot hide any longer that all this fine progress of Kipps is doomed to end in collapse. So far indeed you have seen him ascend. You have seen him becoming more refined and careful day by day, more carefully dressed, less clumsy in the ways and methods of social life. You have seen the gulf widening between himself and his former low associates. I have brought you at last to the vision of him, faultlessly dressed and posed, in an atmosphere of candlelight and chanting, in his own sitting in one of the most fashionable churches in Folkestone.... All the time I have refrained from the lightest touch upon the tragic note that must now creep into my tale. Yet the net of his low connections has been about his feet, and moreover there was something interwoven in his being.... CHAPTER VI DISCORDS 1 One day Kipps set out upon his newly-mastered bicycle to New Romney to break the news of his engagement to his Uncle and Aunt--this time positively. He was now a finished cyclist, but as yet an unseasoned one; the southwest wind, even in its summer guise, as one meets it in the Marsh, is the equivalent of a reasonable hill, and ever and again he got off and refreshed himself by a spell of walking. He was walking just outside New Romney preparatory to his triumphal entry (one hand off) when abruptly he came upon Ann Pornick. It chanced he was thinking about her at the time. He had been thinking curious things; whether, after all, the atmosphere of New Romney and the Marsh had not some difference, some faint impalpable quality that was missing in the great and fashionable world of Folkestone behind there on the hill. Here there was a homeliness, a familiarity. He had noted as he passed that old Mr. Cliffordown's gate had been mended with a fresh piece of

time

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

was a touch of motherliness in her feelings towards him. But his upbringing and his associations had been, she diagnosed, "awful." At New Romney she glanced but little; that was remote. But in her inventory--she went over him as one might go over a newly taken house, with impartial thoroughness--she discovered more proximate influences, surprising intimations of nocturnal "sing-songs"--she pictured it as almost shocking that Kipps should sing to the banjo--much low-grade wisdom treasured from a person called Buggins--"Who _is_ Buggins?" said Helen--vague figures of indisputable vulgarity, Pierce and Carshot, and more particularly, a very terrible social phenomenon, Chitterlow. Chitterlow blazed upon them with unheralded oppressive brilliance the first time they were abroad together. They were going along the front of the Leas to see a school play in Sandgate--at the last moment Mrs. Walshingham had been unable to come with them--when Chitterlow loomed up into the new world. He was wearing the suit of striped flannel and the straw hat that had followed Kipps' payment in advance for his course in elocution, his hands were deep in his side pockets and animated the corners of his jacket, and his attentive gaze at the passing loungers, the faint smile under his boldly drawn nose, showed him engaged in studying character--no doubt for some forthcoming play. "What HO!" said he, at the sight of Kipps, and swept off the straw hat with so ample a clutch of his great, flat hand that it suggested to Helen's startled mind a conjurer about to palm a half-penny. "'Ello, Chitt'low," said Kipps a little awkwardly and not saluting. Chitterlow hesitated. "Half a mo', my boy," he said, and arrested Kipps by extending a large hand over his chest. "Excuse me, my dear," he said, bowing like his Russian count by way of apology to Helen and with a smile that would have killed at a hundred yards. He affected a semi-confidential grouping of himself and Kipps while Helen stood in white amazement. "About that play," he said. "'Ow about it?" asked Kipps, acutely aware of Helen. "It's all right," said Chitterlow. "There's a strong smell of syndicate in the air, I may tell you--Strong." "That's aw right," said Kipps. "You needn't tell everybody," said Chitterlow with a transitory, confidential hand to his mouth, which pointed the application of the "everybody" just a trifle too strongly. "But I think it's coming off. However----. I mustn't detain you now. So long. You'll come 'round, eh?" "Right you are," said Kipps. "To-night?" "At eight." And then, and more in the manner of a Russian prince than any common count, Chitterlow bowed and withdrew. Just for a moment he allowed a conquering eye to challenge Helen's and noted her for a girl of quality.... There was a silence between our lovers for a space. "That," said Kipps with an allusive movement of the head, "was Chitterlow." "Is he--a friend of yours?" "In a way.... You see--I met 'im. Leastways 'e met me. Run into me with a bicycle, 'e did, and so we got talking together." He tried to appear at his ease. The young lady scrutinised his profile. "What is he?" "'E's a Nacter chap," said Kipps. "Leastways 'e writes plays." "And sells them?" "Partly." "Whom to?" "Different people. Shares he sells.... It's all right, reely--I meant to tell you about him before." Helen looked over her shoulder to catch a view of Chitterlow's retreating aspect. It did not compel her complete confidence. She turned to her lover and said in a tone of quiet authority, "You must tell me all about Chitterlow. Now." The explanation began.... The School Play came almost as a relief to Kipps. In the flusterment of going in he could almost forget for a time his Laocoon struggle to explain, and in the intervals he did his best to keep forgetting. But Helen, with a gentle insistence, resumed the explanation of Chitterlow as they returned towards Folkestone. Chitterlow was confoundedly difficult to explain. You could hardly imagine! There was an almost motherly anxiety in Helen's manner, blended with the resolution of a schoolmistress to get to the bottom of the affair. Kipps' ears were soon quite brightly red. "Have you seen one of his plays?" "'E's tole me about one." "But on the stage." "No. He 'asn't 'ad any on the stage yet. That's all coming...." "Promise me," she said in conclusion, "you won't do anything without consulting me." And of course Kipps promised. "Oo--no!" They went on their way in silence. "One can't know everybody," said Helen in general. "Of course," said Kipps; "in a sort of way it was him that helped me to my money." And he indicated in a confused manner the story of the advertisement. "I don't like to drop 'im all at once," he added. Helen was silent for a space, and when she spoke she went off at a tangent. "We shall live in London--soon," she remarked. "It's only while we are here." It was the first intimation she gave him of their post-nuptial prospects. "We shall have a nice little flat somewhere, not too far west, and there we shall build up a circle of our own." 2 All that declining summer Kipps was the pupil lover. He made an extraordinarily open secret of his desire for self-improvement; indeed Helen had to hint once or twice that his modest frankness was excessive, and all this new circle of friends did, each after his or her manner, everything that was possible to supplement Helen's efforts and help him to ease and skill in the more cultivated circles to which he had come. Coote was still the chief teacher, the tutor--there are so many little difficulties that a man may take to another man that he would not care to propound to the woman he loves--but they were all, so to speak, upon the staff. Even the freckled girl said to him once in a pleasant way, "You mustn't say "contre temps," you must say "contraytom,"" when he borrowed that expression from "Manners and Rules," and she tried at his own suggestion to give him clear ideas upon the subject of "as" and "has." A certain confusion between these words was becoming evident, the first fruits of a lesson from Chitterlow on the aspirate. Hitherto he had discarded that dangerous letter almost altogether, but now he would pull up at words beginning with "h" and draw a sawing breath--rather like a startled kitten--and then aspirate with vigour. Said Kipps one day, "_As_ 'e?--I should say, ah--Has 'e? Ye know I got a lot of difficulty over them two words, which is which?" "Well, 'as' is a conjunction and 'has' is a verb." "I know," said Kipps, "but when is 'has' a conjunction and when is 'as' a verb?" "Well," said the freckled girl, preparing to be very lucid. "It's _has_ when it means one has, meaning having, but if it isn't it's _as_. As for instance one says 'e--I mean _he_--He has. But one says 'as he has.'" "I see," said Kipps. "So I ought to say 'as 'e?'" "No, if you are asking a question you say _has_ 'e--I mean he--'as he?" She blushed quite brightly, but still clung to her air of lucidity. "I see," said Kipps. He was about to say something further, but he desisted. "I got it much clearer now. _Has_ 'e? _Has_ 'e as. Yes." "If you remember about having." "Oo I will," said Kipps. Miss Coote specialised in Kipps' artistic development. She had early found an opinion that he had considerable artistic sensibility, his remarks on her work had struck her as decidedly intelligent, and whenever he called around to see them she would show him some work of art, now an illustrated book, now perhaps a colour print of a Botticelli, now the Hundred Best Paintings, now "Academy Pictures," now a German art handbook and now some magazine of furniture and design. "I know you like these things," she used to say, and Kipps said, "Oo I _do_." He soon acquired a little armoury of appreciative sayings. When presently the Walshinghams took him up to the Arts and Crafts, his deportment was intelligent in the extreme. For a time he kept a wary silence and suddenly pitched upon a colour print. "That's rather nace," he said to Mrs. Walshingham. "That lill' thing. There." He always said things like that by preference to the mother rather than the daughter unless he was perfectly sure. He quite took to Mrs. Walshingham. He was impressed by her conspicuous tact and refinement; it seemed to him that the ladylike could go no further. She was always dressed with a delicate fussiness that was never disarranged and even a sort of faded quality about her hair and face and bearing and emotions contributed to her effect. Kipps was not a big man, and commonly he did not feel a big man, but with Mrs. Walshingham he always felt enormous and distended, as though he was a navvy who had taken some disagreeable poison which puffed him up inside his skin as a preliminary to bursting. He felt, too, as though he had been rolled in clay and his hair dressed with gum. And he felt that his voice was strident and his accent like somebody swinging a crowded pig's pail in a free and careless manner. All this increased and enforced his respect for her. Her hand, which flitted often and again to his hand and arm, was singularly well shaped and cool. "Arthur," she called him from the very beginning. She did not so much positively teach and tell him as tactfully guide and infect him. Her conversation was not so much didactic as exemplary. She would say, "I _do_ like people to do" so and so. She would tell him anecdotes of nice things done, of gentlemanly feats of graceful consideration; she would record her neat observations of people in trains and omnibuses; how, for example, a man had passed her change to the conductor, "quite a common man he looked," but he had lifted his hat. She stamped Kipps so deeply with the hat-raising habit that he would uncover if he found himself in the same railway ticket office with a lady had to stand ceremoniously until the difficulties of change drove him to an apologetic provisional oblique resumption of his headgear.... And robbing these things of any air of personal application, she threw about them an abundant talk about her two children--she called them her Twin Jewels quite frequently--about their gifts, their temperaments, their ambition, their need of opportunity. They needed opportunity, she would say, as other people needed air.... In his conversations with her Kipps always assumed, and she seemed to assume, that she was to join that home in London Helen foreshadowed, but he was surprised one day to gather that this was not to be the case. "It wouldn't do," said Helen, with decision. "We want to make a circle of our own." "But won't she be a bit lonely down here?" asked Kipps. "There's the Waces, and Mrs. Prebble and Mrs. Bindon Botting and--lots of people she knows." And Helen dismissed this possibility.... Young Walshingham's share in the educational syndicate was smaller. But he shone out when they went to London on that Arts and Crafts expedition. Then this rising man of affairs showed Kipps how to buy the more theatrical weeklies for consumption in the train, how to buy and what to buy in the way of cigarettes with gold tips and shilling cigars, and how to order hock for lunch and sparkling Moselle for dinner, how to calculate the fare of a hansom cab--penny a minute while he goes--how to look intelligently at an hotel tape, and how to sit still in a train like a thoughtful man instead of talking like a fool and giving yourself away. And he, too, would glance at the good time coming when they were to be in London for good and all. That prospect expanded and developed particulars. It presently took up a large part of Helen's conversation. Her conversations with Kipps were never of a grossly sentimental sort; there was a shyness of speech in that matter with both of them, but these new adumbrations were at least as interesting and not so directly disagreeable as the clear-cut intimations of personal defect that for a time had so greatly chastened Kipps' delight in her presence. The future presented itself with an almost perfect frankness as a joint campaign of Mrs. Walshingham's Twin Jewels upon the Great World, with Kipps in the capacity of baggage and supply. They would still be dreadfully poor, of course--this amazed Kipps, but he said nothing--until "Brudderkins" began to succeed, but if they were clever and lucky they might do a great deal. When Helen spoke of London a brooding look, as of one who contemplates a distant country, came into her eyes. Already it seemed they had the nucleus of a set. Brudderkins was a member of the Theatrical Judges, an excellent and influential little club of journalists and literary people, and he knew Shimer and Stargate and Whiffle, of the "Red Dragon," and besides these were the Revels. They knew the Revels quite well. Sidney Revel before his rapid rise to prominence as a writer of epigrammatic essays that were quite above the ordinary public, had been an assistant master at one of the best Folkestone schools, Brudderkins had brought him home to tea several times, and it was he had first suggested Helen should try and write. "It's perfectly easy," Sidney had said. He had been writing occasional things for the evening papers, and for the weekly reviews even at that time. Then he had gone up to London and had almost unavoidedly become a dramatic critic. Those brilliant essays had followed, and then "Red Hearts a-Beating," the romance that had made him. It was a tale of spirited adventure, full of youth and beauty and na ve passion and generous devotion, bold, as the _Bookman_ said, and frank in places, but never in the slightest degree morbid. He had met and married an American widow with quite a lot of money, and they had made a very distinct place for themselves, Kipps learnt, in the literary and artistic society of London. Helen seemed to dwell on the Revels a great deal; it was her exemplary story, and when she spoke of Sidney--she often called him Sidney--she would become thoughtful. She spoke most of him naturally because she had still to meet Mrs. Revel.... Certainly they would be in the world in no time, even if the distant connection with the Beaupres family came to nothing. Kipps gathered that with his marriage and the movement to London they were to undergo that subtle change of name Coote had first adumbrated. They were to become "Cuyps," Mr. and Mrs. Cuyps. Or, was it Cuyp? "It'll be rum at first," said Kipps. "I dessay I shall soon get into it."... So in their several ways they all contributed to enlarge and refine and exercise the intelligence of Kipps. And behind all these other influences, and, as it were, presiding over and correcting these influences, was Kipps' nearest friend, Coote, a sort of master of the ceremonies. You figure his face, blowing slightly with solicitude, his slate coloured, projecting but not unkindly eye intent upon our hero. The thing he thought was going off admirably. He studied Kipps' character immensely. He would discuss him with his sister, with Mrs. Walshingham, with the freckled girl, with anyone who would stand it. "He is an interesting character," he would say, "likable--a sort of gentleman by instinct. He takes to all these things. He improves every day. He'll soon get Sang Froid. We took him up just in time. He wants now--well----. Next year, perhaps, if there is a good Extension Literature course, he might go in for it. He wants to go in for something like that." "He's going in for his bicycle now," said Mrs. Walshingham. "That's all right for summer," said Coote, "but he wants to go in for some serious, intellectual interest, something to take him out of himself a little more. Savoir Faire and self-forgetfulness is more than half the secret of Sang Froid." 3 The world as Coote presented it was in part an endorsement, in part an amplification and in part a rectification of the world of Kipps, the world that derived from the old couple in New Romney and had been developed in the Emporium; the world, in fact, of common British life. There was the same subtle sense of social graduation that had moved Mrs. Kipps to prohibit intercourse with labourers' children and the same dread of anything "common" that had kept the personal quality of Mr. Shalford's establishment so high. But now a certain disagreeable doubt about Kipps' own position was removed and he stood with Coote inside the sphere of gentlemen assured. Within the sphere of gentlemen there are distinctions of rank indeed, but none of class; there are the Big People and the modest, refined, gentlemanly little people like Coote, who may even dabble in the professions and counterless trades; there are lords and magnificences, and there are gentle folk who have to manage, but they can all call on one another, they preserve a general equality of deportment throughout, they constitute that great state within the state, Society, or at any rate they make believe they do. "But reely," said the Pupil, "not what you call being in Society?" "Yes," said Coote. "Of course, down here one doesn't see much of it, but there's local society. It has the same rules." "Calling and all that?" "Precisely," said Coote. Kipps thought, whistled a bar, and suddenly broached a question of conscience. "I often wonder," he said, "whether I oughtn't to dress for dinner--when I'm alone 'ere." Coote protruded his lips and reflected. "Not full dress," he adjudicated; "that would be a little excessive. But you should _change_, you know. Put on a mess jacket and that sort of thing--easy dress. That is what _I_ should do, certainly, if I wasn't in harness--and poor." He coughed modestly and patted his hair behind. And after that the washing bill of Kipps quadrupled, and he was to be seen at times by the bandstand with his light summer overcoat unbuttoned to give a glimpse of his nice white tie. He and Coote would be smoking the gold-tipped cigarettes young Walshingham had prescribed as _chic_, and appreciating the music highly. "That's--puff--a very nice bit," Kipps would say, or better, "That's nace." And at the first grunts of the loyal anthem up they stood with religiously uplifted hats. Whatever else you might call them, you could never call them disloyal. The boundary of Society was admittedly very close to Coote and Kipps, and a leading solicitude of the true gentleman was to detect clearly those "beneath" him, and to behave towards them in a proper spirit. "It's jest there it's so 'ard for me," said Kipps. He had to cultivate a certain "distance," to acquire altogether the art of checking the presumption of bounders and old friends. It was difficult, Coote admitted. "That's what, so harkward--I mean awkward." "I got mixed up with this lot 'ere," said Kipps. "You could give them a hint," said Coote. "'Ow?" "Oh!--the occasion will suggest something." The occasion came one early closing night when Kipps was sitting in a canopy chair near the bandstand, with his summer overcoat fully open and a new Gibus pulled slightly forward over his brow, waiting for Coote. They were to hear the band for an hour and then go down to assist Miss Coote and the freckled girl in trying over some of Beethoven's duets, if they remembered them, that is, sufficiently well. And as Kipps lounged back in his chair and occupied his mind with his favourite amusement on such evenings, which consisted chiefly in supposing that everyone about him was wondering who he was, came a rude rap at the canvas back and the voice of Pierce. "It's nice to be a gentleman," said Pierce, and swung a penny chair into position while Buggins appeared smiling agreeably on the other side and leant upon his stick. _He was smoking a common briar pipe!_ Two real ladies, very fashionably dressed and sitting close at hand, glanced quickly at Pierce, and then away again, and it was evident _their_ wonder was at an end. "_He's_ all right," said Buggins, removing his pipe and surveying Kipps. "'Ello, Buggins!" said Kipps, not too cordially. "'Ow goes it?" "All right. Holiday's next week. If you don't look out, Kipps, I shall be on the Continong before you. Eh?" "You going t' Boologne?" "Ra-ther. Parley vous Francey. You bet." "_I_ shall 'ave a bit of a run over there one of these days," said Kipps. There came a pause. Pierce applied the top of his stick to his mouth for a space and regarded Kipps. Then he glanced at the people about them. "I say, Kipps," he said in a distinct, loud voice, "see 'er Ladyship lately?" Kipps perceived the audience was to be impressed, but he responded half-heartedly, "No, I 'aven't," he said. "She was along of Sir William the other night," said Pierce, still loud and clear, "and she asked to be remembered to you." It seemed to Kipps that one of the two ladies smiled faintly and said something to the other, and then certainly they glanced at Pierce. Kipps flushed scarlet. "_Did_ she?" he answered. Buggins laughed good-humouredly over his pipe. "Sir William suffers a lot from his gout," Pierce continued unabashed. (Buggins much amused with his pipe between his teeth.) Kipps became aware of Coote at hand. Coote nodded rather distantly to Pierce. "Hope I haven't kept you waiting, Kipps," he said. "I kep' a chair for you," said Kipps and removed a guardian foot. "But you've got your friends," said Coote. "Oh! _we_ don't mind," said Pierce cordially, "the more the merrier," and, "why don't you get a chair, Buggins?" Buggins shook his head in a sort of aside to Pierce and Coote coughed behind his hand. "Been kep' late at business?" asked Pierce. Coote turned quite pale and pretended not to hear. His eyes sought in space for a time and with a convulsive movement he recognised a distant acquaintance and raised his hat. Pierce had also become a little pale. He addressed himself to Kipps in an undertone. "Mr. Coote, isn't he?" he asked. Coote addressed himself to Kipps directly and exclusively. His manner had the calm of extreme tension. "I'm rather late," he said. "I think we ought almost to be going on _now_." Kipps stood up. "That's all right," he said. "Which way are you going?" said Pierce, standing also, and brushing some crumbs of cigarette ash from his sleeve. For a moment Coote was breathless. "Thank you," he said, and gasped. Then he delivered the necessary blow; "I don't think we're in need of your society, you know," and turned away. Kipps found himself falling over chairs and things in the wake of Coote, and then they were clear of the crowd. For a space Coote said nothing; then he remarked abruptly and quite angrily for him, "I think that was _awful_ Cheek!" Kipps made no reply.... The whole thing was an interesting little object lesson in distance, and it stuck in the front of Kipps' mind for a long time. He had particularly vivid the face of Pierce, with an expression between astonishment and anger. He felt as though he had struck Pierce in the face under circumstances that gave Pierce no power to reply. He did not attend very much to the duets and even forgot at the end of one of them to say how perfectly lovely it was. 4 But you must not imagine that the national ideal of a gentleman, as Coote developed it, was all a matter of deportment and selectness, a mere isolation from debasing associations. There is a Serious Side, a deeper aspect of the true, True Gentleman. The True Gentleman does not wear his heart on his sleeve. He is a polished surface above deeps. For example, he is deeply religious, as Coote was, as Mrs. Walshingham was, but outside the walls of a church it never appears, except perhaps now and then in a pause, in a profound look, in a sudden avoidance. In quite a little while Kipps also had learnt the pause, the profound look, the sudden avoidance, that final refinement of spirituality, impressionistic piety. And the True Gentleman is patriotic also. When one saw Coote lifting his hat to the National Anthem, then perhaps one got a glimpse of what patriotic emotions, what worship, the polish of a gentleman may hide. Or singing out his deep notes against the Hosts of Midian, in the St. Stylites choir; then indeed you plumbed his spiritual side. Christian, dost thou heed them, On the holy ground, How the hosts of Mid-i-an, Prowl and prowl around! Christian, up and smai-it them.... But these were but gleams. For the rest, Religion, Nationality, Passion, Money, Politics; much more so those cardinal issues, Birth and Death, the True Gentleman skirted about, and became facially rigid towards and ceased to speak and panted and blew. "One doesn't talk of that sort of thing," Coote would say with a gesture of the knuckly hand. "O' course," Kipps would reply, with an equal significance. Profundities. Deep as it were, blowing to deep. One does not talk, but on the other hand one is punctilious to do. Actions speak. Kipps--in spite of the fact that the Walshinghams were more than a little lax--Kipps, who had formerly flitted Sunday after Sunday from one Folkestone church to another, had now a sitting of his own, paid for duly at Saint Stylites. There he was to be seen, always at the surplice evening service, and sometimes of a morning, dressed with a sober precision, and with an eye on Coote in the chancel. No difficulties now about finding the place in his book. He became a communicant again--he had lapsed soon after his confirmation when the young lady in the costume-room, who was his adopted sister, left the Emporium--and he would sometimes go around to the Vestry for Coote after the service. One evening he was introduced to the Hon. and Rev. Densemore. He was much too confused to say anything, and the noble cleric had nothing to say, but indisputably they were introduced.... No! you must not imagine our national ideal of a gentleman is without its "serious side," without even its stern and uncompromising side. The imagination no doubt refuses to see Coote displaying extraordinary refinements of courage upon the stricken field, but in the walks of peace there is sometimes sore need of sternness. Charitable as one may be, one must admit there are people who _do_ things, impossible things; people who place themselves "out of it" in countless ways; people, moreover, who are by a sort of predestination out of it from the beginning, and against these Society has invented a terrible protection for its Cootery, the Cut. The cut is no joke for anyone. It is excommunication. You may be cut by an individual, you may be cut by a set or you may be--and this is so tragic that beautiful romances have been written about it--"Cut by the County." One figures Coote discharging this last duty and cutting somebody--Coote, erect and pale, never speaking, going past with eyes of pitiless slate, lower jaw protruding a little, face pursed up and cold and stiff.... It never dawned upon Kipps that he would one day have to face this terrible front, to be to Coote not only as one dead, but as one gone more than a stage or so in decay, cut and passed, banned and outcast for ever. Yet so it was to be! One cannot hide any longer that all this fine progress of Kipps is doomed to end in collapse. So far indeed you have seen him ascend. You have seen him becoming more refined and careful day by day, more carefully dressed, less clumsy in the ways and methods of social life. You have seen the gulf widening between himself and his former low associates. I have brought you at last to the vision of him, faultlessly dressed and posed, in an atmosphere of candlelight and chanting, in his own sitting in one of the most fashionable churches in Folkestone.... All the time I have refrained from the lightest touch upon the tragic note that must now creep into my tale. Yet the net of his low connections has been about his feet, and moreover there was something interwoven in his being.... CHAPTER VI DISCORDS 1 One day Kipps set out upon his newly-mastered bicycle to New Romney to break the news of his engagement to his Uncle and Aunt--this time positively. He was now a finished cyclist, but as yet an unseasoned one; the southwest wind, even in its summer guise, as one meets it in the Marsh, is the equivalent of a reasonable hill, and ever and again he got off and refreshed himself by a spell of walking. He was walking just outside New Romney preparatory to his triumphal entry (one hand off) when abruptly he came upon Ann Pornick. It chanced he was thinking about her at the time. He had been thinking curious things; whether, after all, the atmosphere of New Romney and the Marsh had not some difference, some faint impalpable quality that was missing in the great and fashionable world of Folkestone behind there on the hill. Here there was a homeliness, a familiarity. He had noted as he passed that old Mr. Cliffordown's gate had been mended with a fresh piece of

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was a touch of motherliness in her feelings towards him. But his upbringing and his associations had been, she diagnosed, "awful." At New Romney she glanced but little; that was remote. But in her inventory--she went over him as one might go over a newly taken house, with impartial thoroughness--she discovered more proximate influences, surprising intimations of nocturnal "sing-songs"--she pictured it as almost shocking that Kipps should sing to the banjo--much low-grade wisdom treasured from a person called Buggins--"Who _is_ Buggins?" said Helen--vague figures of indisputable vulgarity, Pierce and Carshot, and more particularly, a very terrible social phenomenon, Chitterlow. Chitterlow blazed upon them with unheralded oppressive brilliance the first time they were abroad together. They were going along the front of the Leas to see a school play in Sandgate--at the last moment Mrs. Walshingham had been unable to come with them--when Chitterlow loomed up into the new world. He was wearing the suit of striped flannel and the straw hat that had followed Kipps' payment in advance for his course in elocution, his hands were deep in his side pockets and animated the corners of his jacket, and his attentive gaze at the passing loungers, the faint smile under his boldly drawn nose, showed him engaged in studying character--no doubt for some forthcoming play. "What HO!" said he, at the sight of Kipps, and swept off the straw hat with so ample a clutch of his great, flat hand that it suggested to Helen's startled mind a conjurer about to palm a half-penny. "'Ello, Chitt'low," said Kipps a little awkwardly and not saluting. Chitterlow hesitated. "Half a mo', my boy," he said, and arrested Kipps by extending a large hand over his chest. "Excuse me, my dear," he said, bowing like his Russian count by way of apology to Helen and with a smile that would have killed at a hundred yards. He affected a semi-confidential grouping of himself and Kipps while Helen stood in white amazement. "About that play," he said. "'Ow about it?" asked Kipps, acutely aware of Helen. "It's all right," said Chitterlow. "There's a strong smell of syndicate in the air, I may tell you--Strong." "That's aw right," said Kipps. "You needn't tell everybody," said Chitterlow with a transitory, confidential hand to his mouth, which pointed the application of the "everybody" just a trifle too strongly. "But I think it's coming off. However----. I mustn't detain you now. So long. You'll come 'round, eh?" "Right you are," said Kipps. "To-night?" "At eight." And then, and more in the manner of a Russian prince than any common count, Chitterlow bowed and withdrew. Just for a moment he allowed a conquering eye to challenge Helen's and noted her for a girl of quality.... There was a silence between our lovers for a space. "That," said Kipps with an allusive movement of the head, "was Chitterlow." "Is he--a friend of yours?" "In a way.... You see--I met 'im. Leastways 'e met me. Run into me with a bicycle, 'e did, and so we got talking together." He tried to appear at his ease. The young lady scrutinised his profile. "What is he?" "'E's a Nacter chap," said Kipps. "Leastways 'e writes plays." "And sells them?" "Partly." "Whom to?" "Different people. Shares he sells.... It's all right, reely--I meant to tell you about him before." Helen looked over her shoulder to catch a view of Chitterlow's retreating aspect. It did not compel her complete confidence. She turned to her lover and said in a tone of quiet authority, "You must tell me all about Chitterlow. Now." The explanation began.... The School Play came almost as a relief to Kipps. In the flusterment of going in he could almost forget for a time his Laocoon struggle to explain, and in the intervals he did his best to keep forgetting. But Helen, with a gentle insistence, resumed the explanation of Chitterlow as they returned towards Folkestone. Chitterlow was confoundedly difficult to explain. You could hardly imagine! There was an almost motherly anxiety in Helen's manner, blended with the resolution of a schoolmistress to get to the bottom of the affair. Kipps' ears were soon quite brightly red. "Have you seen one of his plays?" "'E's tole me about one." "But on the stage." "No. He 'asn't 'ad any on the stage yet. That's all coming...." "Promise me," she said in conclusion, "you won't do anything without consulting me." And of course Kipps promised. "Oo--no!" They went on their way in silence. "One can't know everybody," said Helen in general. "Of course," said Kipps; "in a sort of way it was him that helped me to my money." And he indicated in a confused manner the story of the advertisement. "I don't like to drop 'im all at once," he added. Helen was silent for a space, and when she spoke she went off at a tangent. "We shall live in London--soon," she remarked. "It's only while we are here." It was the first intimation she gave him of their post-nuptial prospects. "We shall have a nice little flat somewhere, not too far west, and there we shall build up a circle of our own." 2 All that declining summer Kipps was the pupil lover. He made an extraordinarily open secret of his desire for self-improvement; indeed Helen had to hint once or twice that his modest frankness was excessive, and all this new circle of friends did, each after his or her manner, everything that was possible to supplement Helen's efforts and help him to ease and skill in the more cultivated circles to which he had come. Coote was still the chief teacher, the tutor--there are so many little difficulties that a man may take to another man that he would not care to propound to the woman he loves--but they were all, so to speak, upon the staff. Even the freckled girl said to him once in a pleasant way, "You mustn't say "contre temps," you must say "contraytom,"" when he borrowed that expression from "Manners and Rules," and she tried at his own suggestion to give him clear ideas upon the subject of "as" and "has." A certain confusion between these words was becoming evident, the first fruits of a lesson from Chitterlow on the aspirate. Hitherto he had discarded that dangerous letter almost altogether, but now he would pull up at words beginning with "h" and draw a sawing breath--rather like a startled kitten--and then aspirate with vigour. Said Kipps one day, "_As_ 'e?--I should say, ah--Has 'e? Ye know I got a lot of difficulty over them two words, which is which?" "Well, 'as' is a conjunction and 'has' is a verb." "I know," said Kipps, "but when is 'has' a conjunction and when is 'as' a verb?" "Well," said the freckled girl, preparing to be very lucid. "It's _has_ when it means one has, meaning having, but if it isn't it's _as_. As for instance one says 'e--I mean _he_--He has. But one says 'as he has.'" "I see," said Kipps. "So I ought to say 'as 'e?'" "No, if you are asking a question you say _has_ 'e--I mean he--'as he?" She blushed quite brightly, but still clung to her air of lucidity. "I see," said Kipps. He was about to say something further, but he desisted. "I got it much clearer now. _Has_ 'e? _Has_ 'e as. Yes." "If you remember about having." "Oo I will," said Kipps. Miss Coote specialised in Kipps' artistic development. She had early found an opinion that he had considerable artistic sensibility, his remarks on her work had struck her as decidedly intelligent, and whenever he called around to see them she would show him some work of art, now an illustrated book, now perhaps a colour print of a Botticelli, now the Hundred Best Paintings, now "Academy Pictures," now a German art handbook and now some magazine of furniture and design. "I know you like these things," she used to say, and Kipps said, "Oo I _do_." He soon acquired a little armoury of appreciative sayings. When presently the Walshinghams took him up to the Arts and Crafts, his deportment was intelligent in the extreme. For a time he kept a wary silence and suddenly pitched upon a colour print. "That's rather nace," he said to Mrs. Walshingham. "That lill' thing. There." He always said things like that by preference to the mother rather than the daughter unless he was perfectly sure. He quite took to Mrs. Walshingham. He was impressed by her conspicuous tact and refinement; it seemed to him that the ladylike could go no further. She was always dressed with a delicate fussiness that was never disarranged and even a sort of faded quality about her hair and face and bearing and emotions contributed to her effect. Kipps was not a big man, and commonly he did not feel a big man, but with Mrs. Walshingham he always felt enormous and distended, as though he was a navvy who had taken some disagreeable poison which puffed him up inside his skin as a preliminary to bursting. He felt, too, as though he had been rolled in clay and his hair dressed with gum. And he felt that his voice was strident and his accent like somebody swinging a crowded pig's pail in a free and careless manner. All this increased and enforced his respect for her. Her hand, which flitted often and again to his hand and arm, was singularly well shaped and cool. "Arthur," she called him from the very beginning. She did not so much positively teach and tell him as tactfully guide and infect him. Her conversation was not so much didactic as exemplary. She would say, "I _do_ like people to do" so and so. She would tell him anecdotes of nice things done, of gentlemanly feats of graceful consideration; she would record her neat observations of people in trains and omnibuses; how, for example, a man had passed her change to the conductor, "quite a common man he looked," but he had lifted his hat. She stamped Kipps so deeply with the hat-raising habit that he would uncover if he found himself in the same railway ticket office with a lady had to stand ceremoniously until the difficulties of change drove him to an apologetic provisional oblique resumption of his headgear.... And robbing these things of any air of personal application, she threw about them an abundant talk about her two children--she called them her Twin Jewels quite frequently--about their gifts, their temperaments, their ambition, their need of opportunity. They needed opportunity, she would say, as other people needed air.... In his conversations with her Kipps always assumed, and she seemed to assume, that she was to join that home in London Helen foreshadowed, but he was surprised one day to gather that this was not to be the case. "It wouldn't do," said Helen, with decision. "We want to make a circle of our own." "But won't she be a bit lonely down here?" asked Kipps. "There's the Waces, and Mrs. Prebble and Mrs. Bindon Botting and--lots of people she knows." And Helen dismissed this possibility.... Young Walshingham's share in the educational syndicate was smaller. But he shone out when they went to London on that Arts and Crafts expedition. Then this rising man of affairs showed Kipps how to buy the more theatrical weeklies for consumption in the train, how to buy and what to buy in the way of cigarettes with gold tips and shilling cigars, and how to order hock for lunch and sparkling Moselle for dinner, how to calculate the fare of a hansom cab--penny a minute while he goes--how to look intelligently at an hotel tape, and how to sit still in a train like a thoughtful man instead of talking like a fool and giving yourself away. And he, too, would glance at the good time coming when they were to be in London for good and all. That prospect expanded and developed particulars. It presently took up a large part of Helen's conversation. Her conversations with Kipps were never of a grossly sentimental sort; there was a shyness of speech in that matter with both of them, but these new adumbrations were at least as interesting and not so directly disagreeable as the clear-cut intimations of personal defect that for a time had so greatly chastened Kipps' delight in her presence. The future presented itself with an almost perfect frankness as a joint campaign of Mrs. Walshingham's Twin Jewels upon the Great World, with Kipps in the capacity of baggage and supply. They would still be dreadfully poor, of course--this amazed Kipps, but he said nothing--until "Brudderkins" began to succeed, but if they were clever and lucky they might do a great deal. When Helen spoke of London a brooding look, as of one who contemplates a distant country, came into her eyes. Already it seemed they had the nucleus of a set. Brudderkins was a member of the Theatrical Judges, an excellent and influential little club of journalists and literary people, and he knew Shimer and Stargate and Whiffle, of the "Red Dragon," and besides these were the Revels. They knew the Revels quite well. Sidney Revel before his rapid rise to prominence as a writer of epigrammatic essays that were quite above the ordinary public, had been an assistant master at one of the best Folkestone schools, Brudderkins had brought him home to tea several times, and it was he had first suggested Helen should try and write. "It's perfectly easy," Sidney had said. He had been writing occasional things for the evening papers, and for the weekly reviews even at that time. Then he had gone up to London and had almost unavoidedly become a dramatic critic. Those brilliant essays had followed, and then "Red Hearts a-Beating," the romance that had made him. It was a tale of spirited adventure, full of youth and beauty and na ve passion and generous devotion, bold, as the _Bookman_ said, and frank in places, but never in the slightest degree morbid. He had met and married an American widow with quite a lot of money, and they had made a very distinct place for themselves, Kipps learnt, in the literary and artistic society of London. Helen seemed to dwell on the Revels a great deal; it was her exemplary story, and when she spoke of Sidney--she often called him Sidney--she would become thoughtful. She spoke most of him naturally because she had still to meet Mrs. Revel.... Certainly they would be in the world in no time, even if the distant connection with the Beaupres family came to nothing. Kipps gathered that with his marriage and the movement to London they were to undergo that subtle change of name Coote had first adumbrated. They were to become "Cuyps," Mr. and Mrs. Cuyps. Or, was it Cuyp? "It'll be rum at first," said Kipps. "I dessay I shall soon get into it."... So in their several ways they all contributed to enlarge and refine and exercise the intelligence of Kipps. And behind all these other influences, and, as it were, presiding over and correcting these influences, was Kipps' nearest friend, Coote, a sort of master of the ceremonies. You figure his face, blowing slightly with solicitude, his slate coloured, projecting but not unkindly eye intent upon our hero. The thing he thought was going off admirably. He studied Kipps' character immensely. He would discuss him with his sister, with Mrs. Walshingham, with the freckled girl, with anyone who would stand it. "He is an interesting character," he would say, "likable--a sort of gentleman by instinct. He takes to all these things. He improves every day. He'll soon get Sang Froid. We took him up just in time. He wants now--well----. Next year, perhaps, if there is a good Extension Literature course, he might go in for it. He wants to go in for something like that." "He's going in for his bicycle now," said Mrs. Walshingham. "That's all right for summer," said Coote, "but he wants to go in for some serious, intellectual interest, something to take him out of himself a little more. Savoir Faire and self-forgetfulness is more than half the secret of Sang Froid." 3 The world as Coote presented it was in part an endorsement, in part an amplification and in part a rectification of the world of Kipps, the world that derived from the old couple in New Romney and had been developed in the Emporium; the world, in fact, of common British life. There was the same subtle sense of social graduation that had moved Mrs. Kipps to prohibit intercourse with labourers' children and the same dread of anything "common" that had kept the personal quality of Mr. Shalford's establishment so high. But now a certain disagreeable doubt about Kipps' own position was removed and he stood with Coote inside the sphere of gentlemen assured. Within the sphere of gentlemen there are distinctions of rank indeed, but none of class; there are the Big People and the modest, refined, gentlemanly little people like Coote, who may even dabble in the professions and counterless trades; there are lords and magnificences, and there are gentle folk who have to manage, but they can all call on one another, they preserve a general equality of deportment throughout, they constitute that great state within the state, Society, or at any rate they make believe they do. "But reely," said the Pupil, "not what you call being in Society?" "Yes," said Coote. "Of course, down here one doesn't see much of it, but there's local society. It has the same rules." "Calling and all that?" "Precisely," said Coote. Kipps thought, whistled a bar, and suddenly broached a question of conscience. "I often wonder," he said, "whether I oughtn't to dress for dinner--when I'm alone 'ere." Coote protruded his lips and reflected. "Not full dress," he adjudicated; "that would be a little excessive. But you should _change_, you know. Put on a mess jacket and that sort of thing--easy dress. That is what _I_ should do, certainly, if I wasn't in harness--and poor." He coughed modestly and patted his hair behind. And after that the washing bill of Kipps quadrupled, and he was to be seen at times by the bandstand with his light summer overcoat unbuttoned to give a glimpse of his nice white tie. He and Coote would be smoking the gold-tipped cigarettes young Walshingham had prescribed as _chic_, and appreciating the music highly. "That's--puff--a very nice bit," Kipps would say, or better, "That's nace." And at the first grunts of the loyal anthem up they stood with religiously uplifted hats. Whatever else you might call them, you could never call them disloyal. The boundary of Society was admittedly very close to Coote and Kipps, and a leading solicitude of the true gentleman was to detect clearly those "beneath" him, and to behave towards them in a proper spirit. "It's jest there it's so 'ard for me," said Kipps. He had to cultivate a certain "distance," to acquire altogether the art of checking the presumption of bounders and old friends. It was difficult, Coote admitted. "That's what, so harkward--I mean awkward." "I got mixed up with this lot 'ere," said Kipps. "You could give them a hint," said Coote. "'Ow?" "Oh!--the occasion will suggest something." The occasion came one early closing night when Kipps was sitting in a canopy chair near the bandstand, with his summer overcoat fully open and a new Gibus pulled slightly forward over his brow, waiting for Coote. They were to hear the band for an hour and then go down to assist Miss Coote and the freckled girl in trying over some of Beethoven's duets, if they remembered them, that is, sufficiently well. And as Kipps lounged back in his chair and occupied his mind with his favourite amusement on such evenings, which consisted chiefly in supposing that everyone about him was wondering who he was, came a rude rap at the canvas back and the voice of Pierce. "It's nice to be a gentleman," said Pierce, and swung a penny chair into position while Buggins appeared smiling agreeably on the other side and leant upon his stick. _He was smoking a common briar pipe!_ Two real ladies, very fashionably dressed and sitting close at hand, glanced quickly at Pierce, and then away again, and it was evident _their_ wonder was at an end. "_He's_ all right," said Buggins, removing his pipe and surveying Kipps. "'Ello, Buggins!" said Kipps, not too cordially. "'Ow goes it?" "All right. Holiday's next week. If you don't look out, Kipps, I shall be on the Continong before you. Eh?" "You going t' Boologne?" "Ra-ther. Parley vous Francey. You bet." "_I_ shall 'ave a bit of a run over there one of these days," said Kipps. There came a pause. Pierce applied the top of his stick to his mouth for a space and regarded Kipps. Then he glanced at the people about them. "I say, Kipps," he said in a distinct, loud voice, "see 'er Ladyship lately?" Kipps perceived the audience was to be impressed, but he responded half-heartedly, "No, I 'aven't," he said. "She was along of Sir William the other night," said Pierce, still loud and clear, "and she asked to be remembered to you." It seemed to Kipps that one of the two ladies smiled faintly and said something to the other, and then certainly they glanced at Pierce. Kipps flushed scarlet. "_Did_ she?" he answered. Buggins laughed good-humouredly over his pipe. "Sir William suffers a lot from his gout," Pierce continued unabashed. (Buggins much amused with his pipe between his teeth.) Kipps became aware of Coote at hand. Coote nodded rather distantly to Pierce. "Hope I haven't kept you waiting, Kipps," he said. "I kep' a chair for you," said Kipps and removed a guardian foot. "But you've got your friends," said Coote. "Oh! _we_ don't mind," said Pierce cordially, "the more the merrier," and, "why don't you get a chair, Buggins?" Buggins shook his head in a sort of aside to Pierce and Coote coughed behind his hand. "Been kep' late at business?" asked Pierce. Coote turned quite pale and pretended not to hear. His eyes sought in space for a time and with a convulsive movement he recognised a distant acquaintance and raised his hat. Pierce had also become a little pale. He addressed himself to Kipps in an undertone. "Mr. Coote, isn't he?" he asked. Coote addressed himself to Kipps directly and exclusively. His manner had the calm of extreme tension. "I'm rather late," he said. "I think we ought almost to be going on _now_." Kipps stood up. "That's all right," he said. "Which way are you going?" said Pierce, standing also, and brushing some crumbs of cigarette ash from his sleeve. For a moment Coote was breathless. "Thank you," he said, and gasped. Then he delivered the necessary blow; "I don't think we're in need of your society, you know," and turned away. Kipps found himself falling over chairs and things in the wake of Coote, and then they were clear of the crowd. For a space Coote said nothing; then he remarked abruptly and quite angrily for him, "I think that was _awful_ Cheek!" Kipps made no reply.... The whole thing was an interesting little object lesson in distance, and it stuck in the front of Kipps' mind for a long time. He had particularly vivid the face of Pierce, with an expression between astonishment and anger. He felt as though he had struck Pierce in the face under circumstances that gave Pierce no power to reply. He did not attend very much to the duets and even forgot at the end of one of them to say how perfectly lovely it was. 4 But you must not imagine that the national ideal of a gentleman, as Coote developed it, was all a matter of deportment and selectness, a mere isolation from debasing associations. There is a Serious Side, a deeper aspect of the true, True Gentleman. The True Gentleman does not wear his heart on his sleeve. He is a polished surface above deeps. For example, he is deeply religious, as Coote was, as Mrs. Walshingham was, but outside the walls of a church it never appears, except perhaps now and then in a pause, in a profound look, in a sudden avoidance. In quite a little while Kipps also had learnt the pause, the profound look, the sudden avoidance, that final refinement of spirituality, impressionistic piety. And the True Gentleman is patriotic also. When one saw Coote lifting his hat to the National Anthem, then perhaps one got a glimpse of what patriotic emotions, what worship, the polish of a gentleman may hide. Or singing out his deep notes against the Hosts of Midian, in the St. Stylites choir; then indeed you plumbed his spiritual side. Christian, dost thou heed them, On the holy ground, How the hosts of Mid-i-an, Prowl and prowl around! Christian, up and smai-it them.... But these were but gleams. For the rest, Religion, Nationality, Passion, Money, Politics; much more so those cardinal issues, Birth and Death, the True Gentleman skirted about, and became facially rigid towards and ceased to speak and panted and blew. "One doesn't talk of that sort of thing," Coote would say with a gesture of the knuckly hand. "O' course," Kipps would reply, with an equal significance. Profundities. Deep as it were, blowing to deep. One does not talk, but on the other hand one is punctilious to do. Actions speak. Kipps--in spite of the fact that the Walshinghams were more than a little lax--Kipps, who had formerly flitted Sunday after Sunday from one Folkestone church to another, had now a sitting of his own, paid for duly at Saint Stylites. There he was to be seen, always at the surplice evening service, and sometimes of a morning, dressed with a sober precision, and with an eye on Coote in the chancel. No difficulties now about finding the place in his book. He became a communicant again--he had lapsed soon after his confirmation when the young lady in the costume-room, who was his adopted sister, left the Emporium--and he would sometimes go around to the Vestry for Coote after the service. One evening he was introduced to the Hon. and Rev. Densemore. He was much too confused to say anything, and the noble cleric had nothing to say, but indisputably they were introduced.... No! you must not imagine our national ideal of a gentleman is without its "serious side," without even its stern and uncompromising side. The imagination no doubt refuses to see Coote displaying extraordinary refinements of courage upon the stricken field, but in the walks of peace there is sometimes sore need of sternness. Charitable as one may be, one must admit there are people who _do_ things, impossible things; people who place themselves "out of it" in countless ways; people, moreover, who are by a sort of predestination out of it from the beginning, and against these Society has invented a terrible protection for its Cootery, the Cut. The cut is no joke for anyone. It is excommunication. You may be cut by an individual, you may be cut by a set or you may be--and this is so tragic that beautiful romances have been written about it--"Cut by the County." One figures Coote discharging this last duty and cutting somebody--Coote, erect and pale, never speaking, going past with eyes of pitiless slate, lower jaw protruding a little, face pursed up and cold and stiff.... It never dawned upon Kipps that he would one day have to face this terrible front, to be to Coote not only as one dead, but as one gone more than a stage or so in decay, cut and passed, banned and outcast for ever. Yet so it was to be! One cannot hide any longer that all this fine progress of Kipps is doomed to end in collapse. So far indeed you have seen him ascend. You have seen him becoming more refined and careful day by day, more carefully dressed, less clumsy in the ways and methods of social life. You have seen the gulf widening between himself and his former low associates. I have brought you at last to the vision of him, faultlessly dressed and posed, in an atmosphere of candlelight and chanting, in his own sitting in one of the most fashionable churches in Folkestone.... All the time I have refrained from the lightest touch upon the tragic note that must now creep into my tale. Yet the net of his low connections has been about his feet, and moreover there was something interwoven in his being.... CHAPTER VI DISCORDS 1 One day Kipps set out upon his newly-mastered bicycle to New Romney to break the news of his engagement to his Uncle and Aunt--this time positively. He was now a finished cyclist, but as yet an unseasoned one; the southwest wind, even in its summer guise, as one meets it in the Marsh, is the equivalent of a reasonable hill, and ever and again he got off and refreshed himself by a spell of walking. He was walking just outside New Romney preparatory to his triumphal entry (one hand off) when abruptly he came upon Ann Pornick. It chanced he was thinking about her at the time. He had been thinking curious things; whether, after all, the atmosphere of New Romney and the Marsh had not some difference, some faint impalpable quality that was missing in the great and fashionable world of Folkestone behind there on the hill. Here there was a homeliness, a familiarity. He had noted as he passed that old Mr. Cliffordown's gate had been mended with a fresh piece of

question

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

was a touch of motherliness in her feelings towards him. But his upbringing and his associations had been, she diagnosed, "awful." At New Romney she glanced but little; that was remote. But in her inventory--she went over him as one might go over a newly taken house, with impartial thoroughness--she discovered more proximate influences, surprising intimations of nocturnal "sing-songs"--she pictured it as almost shocking that Kipps should sing to the banjo--much low-grade wisdom treasured from a person called Buggins--"Who _is_ Buggins?" said Helen--vague figures of indisputable vulgarity, Pierce and Carshot, and more particularly, a very terrible social phenomenon, Chitterlow. Chitterlow blazed upon them with unheralded oppressive brilliance the first time they were abroad together. They were going along the front of the Leas to see a school play in Sandgate--at the last moment Mrs. Walshingham had been unable to come with them--when Chitterlow loomed up into the new world. He was wearing the suit of striped flannel and the straw hat that had followed Kipps' payment in advance for his course in elocution, his hands were deep in his side pockets and animated the corners of his jacket, and his attentive gaze at the passing loungers, the faint smile under his boldly drawn nose, showed him engaged in studying character--no doubt for some forthcoming play. "What HO!" said he, at the sight of Kipps, and swept off the straw hat with so ample a clutch of his great, flat hand that it suggested to Helen's startled mind a conjurer about to palm a half-penny. "'Ello, Chitt'low," said Kipps a little awkwardly and not saluting. Chitterlow hesitated. "Half a mo', my boy," he said, and arrested Kipps by extending a large hand over his chest. "Excuse me, my dear," he said, bowing like his Russian count by way of apology to Helen and with a smile that would have killed at a hundred yards. He affected a semi-confidential grouping of himself and Kipps while Helen stood in white amazement. "About that play," he said. "'Ow about it?" asked Kipps, acutely aware of Helen. "It's all right," said Chitterlow. "There's a strong smell of syndicate in the air, I may tell you--Strong." "That's aw right," said Kipps. "You needn't tell everybody," said Chitterlow with a transitory, confidential hand to his mouth, which pointed the application of the "everybody" just a trifle too strongly. "But I think it's coming off. However----. I mustn't detain you now. So long. You'll come 'round, eh?" "Right you are," said Kipps. "To-night?" "At eight." And then, and more in the manner of a Russian prince than any common count, Chitterlow bowed and withdrew. Just for a moment he allowed a conquering eye to challenge Helen's and noted her for a girl of quality.... There was a silence between our lovers for a space. "That," said Kipps with an allusive movement of the head, "was Chitterlow." "Is he--a friend of yours?" "In a way.... You see--I met 'im. Leastways 'e met me. Run into me with a bicycle, 'e did, and so we got talking together." He tried to appear at his ease. The young lady scrutinised his profile. "What is he?" "'E's a Nacter chap," said Kipps. "Leastways 'e writes plays." "And sells them?" "Partly." "Whom to?" "Different people. Shares he sells.... It's all right, reely--I meant to tell you about him before." Helen looked over her shoulder to catch a view of Chitterlow's retreating aspect. It did not compel her complete confidence. She turned to her lover and said in a tone of quiet authority, "You must tell me all about Chitterlow. Now." The explanation began.... The School Play came almost as a relief to Kipps. In the flusterment of going in he could almost forget for a time his Laocoon struggle to explain, and in the intervals he did his best to keep forgetting. But Helen, with a gentle insistence, resumed the explanation of Chitterlow as they returned towards Folkestone. Chitterlow was confoundedly difficult to explain. You could hardly imagine! There was an almost motherly anxiety in Helen's manner, blended with the resolution of a schoolmistress to get to the bottom of the affair. Kipps' ears were soon quite brightly red. "Have you seen one of his plays?" "'E's tole me about one." "But on the stage." "No. He 'asn't 'ad any on the stage yet. That's all coming...." "Promise me," she said in conclusion, "you won't do anything without consulting me." And of course Kipps promised. "Oo--no!" They went on their way in silence. "One can't know everybody," said Helen in general. "Of course," said Kipps; "in a sort of way it was him that helped me to my money." And he indicated in a confused manner the story of the advertisement. "I don't like to drop 'im all at once," he added. Helen was silent for a space, and when she spoke she went off at a tangent. "We shall live in London--soon," she remarked. "It's only while we are here." It was the first intimation she gave him of their post-nuptial prospects. "We shall have a nice little flat somewhere, not too far west, and there we shall build up a circle of our own." 2 All that declining summer Kipps was the pupil lover. He made an extraordinarily open secret of his desire for self-improvement; indeed Helen had to hint once or twice that his modest frankness was excessive, and all this new circle of friends did, each after his or her manner, everything that was possible to supplement Helen's efforts and help him to ease and skill in the more cultivated circles to which he had come. Coote was still the chief teacher, the tutor--there are so many little difficulties that a man may take to another man that he would not care to propound to the woman he loves--but they were all, so to speak, upon the staff. Even the freckled girl said to him once in a pleasant way, "You mustn't say "contre temps," you must say "contraytom,"" when he borrowed that expression from "Manners and Rules," and she tried at his own suggestion to give him clear ideas upon the subject of "as" and "has." A certain confusion between these words was becoming evident, the first fruits of a lesson from Chitterlow on the aspirate. Hitherto he had discarded that dangerous letter almost altogether, but now he would pull up at words beginning with "h" and draw a sawing breath--rather like a startled kitten--and then aspirate with vigour. Said Kipps one day, "_As_ 'e?--I should say, ah--Has 'e? Ye know I got a lot of difficulty over them two words, which is which?" "Well, 'as' is a conjunction and 'has' is a verb." "I know," said Kipps, "but when is 'has' a conjunction and when is 'as' a verb?" "Well," said the freckled girl, preparing to be very lucid. "It's _has_ when it means one has, meaning having, but if it isn't it's _as_. As for instance one says 'e--I mean _he_--He has. But one says 'as he has.'" "I see," said Kipps. "So I ought to say 'as 'e?'" "No, if you are asking a question you say _has_ 'e--I mean he--'as he?" She blushed quite brightly, but still clung to her air of lucidity. "I see," said Kipps. He was about to say something further, but he desisted. "I got it much clearer now. _Has_ 'e? _Has_ 'e as. Yes." "If you remember about having." "Oo I will," said Kipps. Miss Coote specialised in Kipps' artistic development. She had early found an opinion that he had considerable artistic sensibility, his remarks on her work had struck her as decidedly intelligent, and whenever he called around to see them she would show him some work of art, now an illustrated book, now perhaps a colour print of a Botticelli, now the Hundred Best Paintings, now "Academy Pictures," now a German art handbook and now some magazine of furniture and design. "I know you like these things," she used to say, and Kipps said, "Oo I _do_." He soon acquired a little armoury of appreciative sayings. When presently the Walshinghams took him up to the Arts and Crafts, his deportment was intelligent in the extreme. For a time he kept a wary silence and suddenly pitched upon a colour print. "That's rather nace," he said to Mrs. Walshingham. "That lill' thing. There." He always said things like that by preference to the mother rather than the daughter unless he was perfectly sure. He quite took to Mrs. Walshingham. He was impressed by her conspicuous tact and refinement; it seemed to him that the ladylike could go no further. She was always dressed with a delicate fussiness that was never disarranged and even a sort of faded quality about her hair and face and bearing and emotions contributed to her effect. Kipps was not a big man, and commonly he did not feel a big man, but with Mrs. Walshingham he always felt enormous and distended, as though he was a navvy who had taken some disagreeable poison which puffed him up inside his skin as a preliminary to bursting. He felt, too, as though he had been rolled in clay and his hair dressed with gum. And he felt that his voice was strident and his accent like somebody swinging a crowded pig's pail in a free and careless manner. All this increased and enforced his respect for her. Her hand, which flitted often and again to his hand and arm, was singularly well shaped and cool. "Arthur," she called him from the very beginning. She did not so much positively teach and tell him as tactfully guide and infect him. Her conversation was not so much didactic as exemplary. She would say, "I _do_ like people to do" so and so. She would tell him anecdotes of nice things done, of gentlemanly feats of graceful consideration; she would record her neat observations of people in trains and omnibuses; how, for example, a man had passed her change to the conductor, "quite a common man he looked," but he had lifted his hat. She stamped Kipps so deeply with the hat-raising habit that he would uncover if he found himself in the same railway ticket office with a lady had to stand ceremoniously until the difficulties of change drove him to an apologetic provisional oblique resumption of his headgear.... And robbing these things of any air of personal application, she threw about them an abundant talk about her two children--she called them her Twin Jewels quite frequently--about their gifts, their temperaments, their ambition, their need of opportunity. They needed opportunity, she would say, as other people needed air.... In his conversations with her Kipps always assumed, and she seemed to assume, that she was to join that home in London Helen foreshadowed, but he was surprised one day to gather that this was not to be the case. "It wouldn't do," said Helen, with decision. "We want to make a circle of our own." "But won't she be a bit lonely down here?" asked Kipps. "There's the Waces, and Mrs. Prebble and Mrs. Bindon Botting and--lots of people she knows." And Helen dismissed this possibility.... Young Walshingham's share in the educational syndicate was smaller. But he shone out when they went to London on that Arts and Crafts expedition. Then this rising man of affairs showed Kipps how to buy the more theatrical weeklies for consumption in the train, how to buy and what to buy in the way of cigarettes with gold tips and shilling cigars, and how to order hock for lunch and sparkling Moselle for dinner, how to calculate the fare of a hansom cab--penny a minute while he goes--how to look intelligently at an hotel tape, and how to sit still in a train like a thoughtful man instead of talking like a fool and giving yourself away. And he, too, would glance at the good time coming when they were to be in London for good and all. That prospect expanded and developed particulars. It presently took up a large part of Helen's conversation. Her conversations with Kipps were never of a grossly sentimental sort; there was a shyness of speech in that matter with both of them, but these new adumbrations were at least as interesting and not so directly disagreeable as the clear-cut intimations of personal defect that for a time had so greatly chastened Kipps' delight in her presence. The future presented itself with an almost perfect frankness as a joint campaign of Mrs. Walshingham's Twin Jewels upon the Great World, with Kipps in the capacity of baggage and supply. They would still be dreadfully poor, of course--this amazed Kipps, but he said nothing--until "Brudderkins" began to succeed, but if they were clever and lucky they might do a great deal. When Helen spoke of London a brooding look, as of one who contemplates a distant country, came into her eyes. Already it seemed they had the nucleus of a set. Brudderkins was a member of the Theatrical Judges, an excellent and influential little club of journalists and literary people, and he knew Shimer and Stargate and Whiffle, of the "Red Dragon," and besides these were the Revels. They knew the Revels quite well. Sidney Revel before his rapid rise to prominence as a writer of epigrammatic essays that were quite above the ordinary public, had been an assistant master at one of the best Folkestone schools, Brudderkins had brought him home to tea several times, and it was he had first suggested Helen should try and write. "It's perfectly easy," Sidney had said. He had been writing occasional things for the evening papers, and for the weekly reviews even at that time. Then he had gone up to London and had almost unavoidedly become a dramatic critic. Those brilliant essays had followed, and then "Red Hearts a-Beating," the romance that had made him. It was a tale of spirited adventure, full of youth and beauty and na ve passion and generous devotion, bold, as the _Bookman_ said, and frank in places, but never in the slightest degree morbid. He had met and married an American widow with quite a lot of money, and they had made a very distinct place for themselves, Kipps learnt, in the literary and artistic society of London. Helen seemed to dwell on the Revels a great deal; it was her exemplary story, and when she spoke of Sidney--she often called him Sidney--she would become thoughtful. She spoke most of him naturally because she had still to meet Mrs. Revel.... Certainly they would be in the world in no time, even if the distant connection with the Beaupres family came to nothing. Kipps gathered that with his marriage and the movement to London they were to undergo that subtle change of name Coote had first adumbrated. They were to become "Cuyps," Mr. and Mrs. Cuyps. Or, was it Cuyp? "It'll be rum at first," said Kipps. "I dessay I shall soon get into it."... So in their several ways they all contributed to enlarge and refine and exercise the intelligence of Kipps. And behind all these other influences, and, as it were, presiding over and correcting these influences, was Kipps' nearest friend, Coote, a sort of master of the ceremonies. You figure his face, blowing slightly with solicitude, his slate coloured, projecting but not unkindly eye intent upon our hero. The thing he thought was going off admirably. He studied Kipps' character immensely. He would discuss him with his sister, with Mrs. Walshingham, with the freckled girl, with anyone who would stand it. "He is an interesting character," he would say, "likable--a sort of gentleman by instinct. He takes to all these things. He improves every day. He'll soon get Sang Froid. We took him up just in time. He wants now--well----. Next year, perhaps, if there is a good Extension Literature course, he might go in for it. He wants to go in for something like that." "He's going in for his bicycle now," said Mrs. Walshingham. "That's all right for summer," said Coote, "but he wants to go in for some serious, intellectual interest, something to take him out of himself a little more. Savoir Faire and self-forgetfulness is more than half the secret of Sang Froid." 3 The world as Coote presented it was in part an endorsement, in part an amplification and in part a rectification of the world of Kipps, the world that derived from the old couple in New Romney and had been developed in the Emporium; the world, in fact, of common British life. There was the same subtle sense of social graduation that had moved Mrs. Kipps to prohibit intercourse with labourers' children and the same dread of anything "common" that had kept the personal quality of Mr. Shalford's establishment so high. But now a certain disagreeable doubt about Kipps' own position was removed and he stood with Coote inside the sphere of gentlemen assured. Within the sphere of gentlemen there are distinctions of rank indeed, but none of class; there are the Big People and the modest, refined, gentlemanly little people like Coote, who may even dabble in the professions and counterless trades; there are lords and magnificences, and there are gentle folk who have to manage, but they can all call on one another, they preserve a general equality of deportment throughout, they constitute that great state within the state, Society, or at any rate they make believe they do. "But reely," said the Pupil, "not what you call being in Society?" "Yes," said Coote. "Of course, down here one doesn't see much of it, but there's local society. It has the same rules." "Calling and all that?" "Precisely," said Coote. Kipps thought, whistled a bar, and suddenly broached a question of conscience. "I often wonder," he said, "whether I oughtn't to dress for dinner--when I'm alone 'ere." Coote protruded his lips and reflected. "Not full dress," he adjudicated; "that would be a little excessive. But you should _change_, you know. Put on a mess jacket and that sort of thing--easy dress. That is what _I_ should do, certainly, if I wasn't in harness--and poor." He coughed modestly and patted his hair behind. And after that the washing bill of Kipps quadrupled, and he was to be seen at times by the bandstand with his light summer overcoat unbuttoned to give a glimpse of his nice white tie. He and Coote would be smoking the gold-tipped cigarettes young Walshingham had prescribed as _chic_, and appreciating the music highly. "That's--puff--a very nice bit," Kipps would say, or better, "That's nace." And at the first grunts of the loyal anthem up they stood with religiously uplifted hats. Whatever else you might call them, you could never call them disloyal. The boundary of Society was admittedly very close to Coote and Kipps, and a leading solicitude of the true gentleman was to detect clearly those "beneath" him, and to behave towards them in a proper spirit. "It's jest there it's so 'ard for me," said Kipps. He had to cultivate a certain "distance," to acquire altogether the art of checking the presumption of bounders and old friends. It was difficult, Coote admitted. "That's what, so harkward--I mean awkward." "I got mixed up with this lot 'ere," said Kipps. "You could give them a hint," said Coote. "'Ow?" "Oh!--the occasion will suggest something." The occasion came one early closing night when Kipps was sitting in a canopy chair near the bandstand, with his summer overcoat fully open and a new Gibus pulled slightly forward over his brow, waiting for Coote. They were to hear the band for an hour and then go down to assist Miss Coote and the freckled girl in trying over some of Beethoven's duets, if they remembered them, that is, sufficiently well. And as Kipps lounged back in his chair and occupied his mind with his favourite amusement on such evenings, which consisted chiefly in supposing that everyone about him was wondering who he was, came a rude rap at the canvas back and the voice of Pierce. "It's nice to be a gentleman," said Pierce, and swung a penny chair into position while Buggins appeared smiling agreeably on the other side and leant upon his stick. _He was smoking a common briar pipe!_ Two real ladies, very fashionably dressed and sitting close at hand, glanced quickly at Pierce, and then away again, and it was evident _their_ wonder was at an end. "_He's_ all right," said Buggins, removing his pipe and surveying Kipps. "'Ello, Buggins!" said Kipps, not too cordially. "'Ow goes it?" "All right. Holiday's next week. If you don't look out, Kipps, I shall be on the Continong before you. Eh?" "You going t' Boologne?" "Ra-ther. Parley vous Francey. You bet." "_I_ shall 'ave a bit of a run over there one of these days," said Kipps. There came a pause. Pierce applied the top of his stick to his mouth for a space and regarded Kipps. Then he glanced at the people about them. "I say, Kipps," he said in a distinct, loud voice, "see 'er Ladyship lately?" Kipps perceived the audience was to be impressed, but he responded half-heartedly, "No, I 'aven't," he said. "She was along of Sir William the other night," said Pierce, still loud and clear, "and she asked to be remembered to you." It seemed to Kipps that one of the two ladies smiled faintly and said something to the other, and then certainly they glanced at Pierce. Kipps flushed scarlet. "_Did_ she?" he answered. Buggins laughed good-humouredly over his pipe. "Sir William suffers a lot from his gout," Pierce continued unabashed. (Buggins much amused with his pipe between his teeth.) Kipps became aware of Coote at hand. Coote nodded rather distantly to Pierce. "Hope I haven't kept you waiting, Kipps," he said. "I kep' a chair for you," said Kipps and removed a guardian foot. "But you've got your friends," said Coote. "Oh! _we_ don't mind," said Pierce cordially, "the more the merrier," and, "why don't you get a chair, Buggins?" Buggins shook his head in a sort of aside to Pierce and Coote coughed behind his hand. "Been kep' late at business?" asked Pierce. Coote turned quite pale and pretended not to hear. His eyes sought in space for a time and with a convulsive movement he recognised a distant acquaintance and raised his hat. Pierce had also become a little pale. He addressed himself to Kipps in an undertone. "Mr. Coote, isn't he?" he asked. Coote addressed himself to Kipps directly and exclusively. His manner had the calm of extreme tension. "I'm rather late," he said. "I think we ought almost to be going on _now_." Kipps stood up. "That's all right," he said. "Which way are you going?" said Pierce, standing also, and brushing some crumbs of cigarette ash from his sleeve. For a moment Coote was breathless. "Thank you," he said, and gasped. Then he delivered the necessary blow; "I don't think we're in need of your society, you know," and turned away. Kipps found himself falling over chairs and things in the wake of Coote, and then they were clear of the crowd. For a space Coote said nothing; then he remarked abruptly and quite angrily for him, "I think that was _awful_ Cheek!" Kipps made no reply.... The whole thing was an interesting little object lesson in distance, and it stuck in the front of Kipps' mind for a long time. He had particularly vivid the face of Pierce, with an expression between astonishment and anger. He felt as though he had struck Pierce in the face under circumstances that gave Pierce no power to reply. He did not attend very much to the duets and even forgot at the end of one of them to say how perfectly lovely it was. 4 But you must not imagine that the national ideal of a gentleman, as Coote developed it, was all a matter of deportment and selectness, a mere isolation from debasing associations. There is a Serious Side, a deeper aspect of the true, True Gentleman. The True Gentleman does not wear his heart on his sleeve. He is a polished surface above deeps. For example, he is deeply religious, as Coote was, as Mrs. Walshingham was, but outside the walls of a church it never appears, except perhaps now and then in a pause, in a profound look, in a sudden avoidance. In quite a little while Kipps also had learnt the pause, the profound look, the sudden avoidance, that final refinement of spirituality, impressionistic piety. And the True Gentleman is patriotic also. When one saw Coote lifting his hat to the National Anthem, then perhaps one got a glimpse of what patriotic emotions, what worship, the polish of a gentleman may hide. Or singing out his deep notes against the Hosts of Midian, in the St. Stylites choir; then indeed you plumbed his spiritual side. Christian, dost thou heed them, On the holy ground, How the hosts of Mid-i-an, Prowl and prowl around! Christian, up and smai-it them.... But these were but gleams. For the rest, Religion, Nationality, Passion, Money, Politics; much more so those cardinal issues, Birth and Death, the True Gentleman skirted about, and became facially rigid towards and ceased to speak and panted and blew. "One doesn't talk of that sort of thing," Coote would say with a gesture of the knuckly hand. "O' course," Kipps would reply, with an equal significance. Profundities. Deep as it were, blowing to deep. One does not talk, but on the other hand one is punctilious to do. Actions speak. Kipps--in spite of the fact that the Walshinghams were more than a little lax--Kipps, who had formerly flitted Sunday after Sunday from one Folkestone church to another, had now a sitting of his own, paid for duly at Saint Stylites. There he was to be seen, always at the surplice evening service, and sometimes of a morning, dressed with a sober precision, and with an eye on Coote in the chancel. No difficulties now about finding the place in his book. He became a communicant again--he had lapsed soon after his confirmation when the young lady in the costume-room, who was his adopted sister, left the Emporium--and he would sometimes go around to the Vestry for Coote after the service. One evening he was introduced to the Hon. and Rev. Densemore. He was much too confused to say anything, and the noble cleric had nothing to say, but indisputably they were introduced.... No! you must not imagine our national ideal of a gentleman is without its "serious side," without even its stern and uncompromising side. The imagination no doubt refuses to see Coote displaying extraordinary refinements of courage upon the stricken field, but in the walks of peace there is sometimes sore need of sternness. Charitable as one may be, one must admit there are people who _do_ things, impossible things; people who place themselves "out of it" in countless ways; people, moreover, who are by a sort of predestination out of it from the beginning, and against these Society has invented a terrible protection for its Cootery, the Cut. The cut is no joke for anyone. It is excommunication. You may be cut by an individual, you may be cut by a set or you may be--and this is so tragic that beautiful romances have been written about it--"Cut by the County." One figures Coote discharging this last duty and cutting somebody--Coote, erect and pale, never speaking, going past with eyes of pitiless slate, lower jaw protruding a little, face pursed up and cold and stiff.... It never dawned upon Kipps that he would one day have to face this terrible front, to be to Coote not only as one dead, but as one gone more than a stage or so in decay, cut and passed, banned and outcast for ever. Yet so it was to be! One cannot hide any longer that all this fine progress of Kipps is doomed to end in collapse. So far indeed you have seen him ascend. You have seen him becoming more refined and careful day by day, more carefully dressed, less clumsy in the ways and methods of social life. You have seen the gulf widening between himself and his former low associates. I have brought you at last to the vision of him, faultlessly dressed and posed, in an atmosphere of candlelight and chanting, in his own sitting in one of the most fashionable churches in Folkestone.... All the time I have refrained from the lightest touch upon the tragic note that must now creep into my tale. Yet the net of his low connections has been about his feet, and moreover there was something interwoven in his being.... CHAPTER VI DISCORDS 1 One day Kipps set out upon his newly-mastered bicycle to New Romney to break the news of his engagement to his Uncle and Aunt--this time positively. He was now a finished cyclist, but as yet an unseasoned one; the southwest wind, even in its summer guise, as one meets it in the Marsh, is the equivalent of a reasonable hill, and ever and again he got off and refreshed himself by a spell of walking. He was walking just outside New Romney preparatory to his triumphal entry (one hand off) when abruptly he came upon Ann Pornick. It chanced he was thinking about her at the time. He had been thinking curious things; whether, after all, the atmosphere of New Romney and the Marsh had not some difference, some faint impalpable quality that was missing in the great and fashionable world of Folkestone behind there on the hill. Here there was a homeliness, a familiarity. He had noted as he passed that old Mr. Cliffordown's gate had been mended with a fresh piece of

bit

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

was a touch of motherliness in her feelings towards him. But his upbringing and his associations had been, she diagnosed, "awful." At New Romney she glanced but little; that was remote. But in her inventory--she went over him as one might go over a newly taken house, with impartial thoroughness--she discovered more proximate influences, surprising intimations of nocturnal "sing-songs"--she pictured it as almost shocking that Kipps should sing to the banjo--much low-grade wisdom treasured from a person called Buggins--"Who _is_ Buggins?" said Helen--vague figures of indisputable vulgarity, Pierce and Carshot, and more particularly, a very terrible social phenomenon, Chitterlow. Chitterlow blazed upon them with unheralded oppressive brilliance the first time they were abroad together. They were going along the front of the Leas to see a school play in Sandgate--at the last moment Mrs. Walshingham had been unable to come with them--when Chitterlow loomed up into the new world. He was wearing the suit of striped flannel and the straw hat that had followed Kipps' payment in advance for his course in elocution, his hands were deep in his side pockets and animated the corners of his jacket, and his attentive gaze at the passing loungers, the faint smile under his boldly drawn nose, showed him engaged in studying character--no doubt for some forthcoming play. "What HO!" said he, at the sight of Kipps, and swept off the straw hat with so ample a clutch of his great, flat hand that it suggested to Helen's startled mind a conjurer about to palm a half-penny. "'Ello, Chitt'low," said Kipps a little awkwardly and not saluting. Chitterlow hesitated. "Half a mo', my boy," he said, and arrested Kipps by extending a large hand over his chest. "Excuse me, my dear," he said, bowing like his Russian count by way of apology to Helen and with a smile that would have killed at a hundred yards. He affected a semi-confidential grouping of himself and Kipps while Helen stood in white amazement. "About that play," he said. "'Ow about it?" asked Kipps, acutely aware of Helen. "It's all right," said Chitterlow. "There's a strong smell of syndicate in the air, I may tell you--Strong." "That's aw right," said Kipps. "You needn't tell everybody," said Chitterlow with a transitory, confidential hand to his mouth, which pointed the application of the "everybody" just a trifle too strongly. "But I think it's coming off. However----. I mustn't detain you now. So long. You'll come 'round, eh?" "Right you are," said Kipps. "To-night?" "At eight." And then, and more in the manner of a Russian prince than any common count, Chitterlow bowed and withdrew. Just for a moment he allowed a conquering eye to challenge Helen's and noted her for a girl of quality.... There was a silence between our lovers for a space. "That," said Kipps with an allusive movement of the head, "was Chitterlow." "Is he--a friend of yours?" "In a way.... You see--I met 'im. Leastways 'e met me. Run into me with a bicycle, 'e did, and so we got talking together." He tried to appear at his ease. The young lady scrutinised his profile. "What is he?" "'E's a Nacter chap," said Kipps. "Leastways 'e writes plays." "And sells them?" "Partly." "Whom to?" "Different people. Shares he sells.... It's all right, reely--I meant to tell you about him before." Helen looked over her shoulder to catch a view of Chitterlow's retreating aspect. It did not compel her complete confidence. She turned to her lover and said in a tone of quiet authority, "You must tell me all about Chitterlow. Now." The explanation began.... The School Play came almost as a relief to Kipps. In the flusterment of going in he could almost forget for a time his Laocoon struggle to explain, and in the intervals he did his best to keep forgetting. But Helen, with a gentle insistence, resumed the explanation of Chitterlow as they returned towards Folkestone. Chitterlow was confoundedly difficult to explain. You could hardly imagine! There was an almost motherly anxiety in Helen's manner, blended with the resolution of a schoolmistress to get to the bottom of the affair. Kipps' ears were soon quite brightly red. "Have you seen one of his plays?" "'E's tole me about one." "But on the stage." "No. He 'asn't 'ad any on the stage yet. That's all coming...." "Promise me," she said in conclusion, "you won't do anything without consulting me." And of course Kipps promised. "Oo--no!" They went on their way in silence. "One can't know everybody," said Helen in general. "Of course," said Kipps; "in a sort of way it was him that helped me to my money." And he indicated in a confused manner the story of the advertisement. "I don't like to drop 'im all at once," he added. Helen was silent for a space, and when she spoke she went off at a tangent. "We shall live in London--soon," she remarked. "It's only while we are here." It was the first intimation she gave him of their post-nuptial prospects. "We shall have a nice little flat somewhere, not too far west, and there we shall build up a circle of our own." 2 All that declining summer Kipps was the pupil lover. He made an extraordinarily open secret of his desire for self-improvement; indeed Helen had to hint once or twice that his modest frankness was excessive, and all this new circle of friends did, each after his or her manner, everything that was possible to supplement Helen's efforts and help him to ease and skill in the more cultivated circles to which he had come. Coote was still the chief teacher, the tutor--there are so many little difficulties that a man may take to another man that he would not care to propound to the woman he loves--but they were all, so to speak, upon the staff. Even the freckled girl said to him once in a pleasant way, "You mustn't say "contre temps," you must say "contraytom,"" when he borrowed that expression from "Manners and Rules," and she tried at his own suggestion to give him clear ideas upon the subject of "as" and "has." A certain confusion between these words was becoming evident, the first fruits of a lesson from Chitterlow on the aspirate. Hitherto he had discarded that dangerous letter almost altogether, but now he would pull up at words beginning with "h" and draw a sawing breath--rather like a startled kitten--and then aspirate with vigour. Said Kipps one day, "_As_ 'e?--I should say, ah--Has 'e? Ye know I got a lot of difficulty over them two words, which is which?" "Well, 'as' is a conjunction and 'has' is a verb." "I know," said Kipps, "but when is 'has' a conjunction and when is 'as' a verb?" "Well," said the freckled girl, preparing to be very lucid. "It's _has_ when it means one has, meaning having, but if it isn't it's _as_. As for instance one says 'e--I mean _he_--He has. But one says 'as he has.'" "I see," said Kipps. "So I ought to say 'as 'e?'" "No, if you are asking a question you say _has_ 'e--I mean he--'as he?" She blushed quite brightly, but still clung to her air of lucidity. "I see," said Kipps. He was about to say something further, but he desisted. "I got it much clearer now. _Has_ 'e? _Has_ 'e as. Yes." "If you remember about having." "Oo I will," said Kipps. Miss Coote specialised in Kipps' artistic development. She had early found an opinion that he had considerable artistic sensibility, his remarks on her work had struck her as decidedly intelligent, and whenever he called around to see them she would show him some work of art, now an illustrated book, now perhaps a colour print of a Botticelli, now the Hundred Best Paintings, now "Academy Pictures," now a German art handbook and now some magazine of furniture and design. "I know you like these things," she used to say, and Kipps said, "Oo I _do_." He soon acquired a little armoury of appreciative sayings. When presently the Walshinghams took him up to the Arts and Crafts, his deportment was intelligent in the extreme. For a time he kept a wary silence and suddenly pitched upon a colour print. "That's rather nace," he said to Mrs. Walshingham. "That lill' thing. There." He always said things like that by preference to the mother rather than the daughter unless he was perfectly sure. He quite took to Mrs. Walshingham. He was impressed by her conspicuous tact and refinement; it seemed to him that the ladylike could go no further. She was always dressed with a delicate fussiness that was never disarranged and even a sort of faded quality about her hair and face and bearing and emotions contributed to her effect. Kipps was not a big man, and commonly he did not feel a big man, but with Mrs. Walshingham he always felt enormous and distended, as though he was a navvy who had taken some disagreeable poison which puffed him up inside his skin as a preliminary to bursting. He felt, too, as though he had been rolled in clay and his hair dressed with gum. And he felt that his voice was strident and his accent like somebody swinging a crowded pig's pail in a free and careless manner. All this increased and enforced his respect for her. Her hand, which flitted often and again to his hand and arm, was singularly well shaped and cool. "Arthur," she called him from the very beginning. She did not so much positively teach and tell him as tactfully guide and infect him. Her conversation was not so much didactic as exemplary. She would say, "I _do_ like people to do" so and so. She would tell him anecdotes of nice things done, of gentlemanly feats of graceful consideration; she would record her neat observations of people in trains and omnibuses; how, for example, a man had passed her change to the conductor, "quite a common man he looked," but he had lifted his hat. She stamped Kipps so deeply with the hat-raising habit that he would uncover if he found himself in the same railway ticket office with a lady had to stand ceremoniously until the difficulties of change drove him to an apologetic provisional oblique resumption of his headgear.... And robbing these things of any air of personal application, she threw about them an abundant talk about her two children--she called them her Twin Jewels quite frequently--about their gifts, their temperaments, their ambition, their need of opportunity. They needed opportunity, she would say, as other people needed air.... In his conversations with her Kipps always assumed, and she seemed to assume, that she was to join that home in London Helen foreshadowed, but he was surprised one day to gather that this was not to be the case. "It wouldn't do," said Helen, with decision. "We want to make a circle of our own." "But won't she be a bit lonely down here?" asked Kipps. "There's the Waces, and Mrs. Prebble and Mrs. Bindon Botting and--lots of people she knows." And Helen dismissed this possibility.... Young Walshingham's share in the educational syndicate was smaller. But he shone out when they went to London on that Arts and Crafts expedition. Then this rising man of affairs showed Kipps how to buy the more theatrical weeklies for consumption in the train, how to buy and what to buy in the way of cigarettes with gold tips and shilling cigars, and how to order hock for lunch and sparkling Moselle for dinner, how to calculate the fare of a hansom cab--penny a minute while he goes--how to look intelligently at an hotel tape, and how to sit still in a train like a thoughtful man instead of talking like a fool and giving yourself away. And he, too, would glance at the good time coming when they were to be in London for good and all. That prospect expanded and developed particulars. It presently took up a large part of Helen's conversation. Her conversations with Kipps were never of a grossly sentimental sort; there was a shyness of speech in that matter with both of them, but these new adumbrations were at least as interesting and not so directly disagreeable as the clear-cut intimations of personal defect that for a time had so greatly chastened Kipps' delight in her presence. The future presented itself with an almost perfect frankness as a joint campaign of Mrs. Walshingham's Twin Jewels upon the Great World, with Kipps in the capacity of baggage and supply. They would still be dreadfully poor, of course--this amazed Kipps, but he said nothing--until "Brudderkins" began to succeed, but if they were clever and lucky they might do a great deal. When Helen spoke of London a brooding look, as of one who contemplates a distant country, came into her eyes. Already it seemed they had the nucleus of a set. Brudderkins was a member of the Theatrical Judges, an excellent and influential little club of journalists and literary people, and he knew Shimer and Stargate and Whiffle, of the "Red Dragon," and besides these were the Revels. They knew the Revels quite well. Sidney Revel before his rapid rise to prominence as a writer of epigrammatic essays that were quite above the ordinary public, had been an assistant master at one of the best Folkestone schools, Brudderkins had brought him home to tea several times, and it was he had first suggested Helen should try and write. "It's perfectly easy," Sidney had said. He had been writing occasional things for the evening papers, and for the weekly reviews even at that time. Then he had gone up to London and had almost unavoidedly become a dramatic critic. Those brilliant essays had followed, and then "Red Hearts a-Beating," the romance that had made him. It was a tale of spirited adventure, full of youth and beauty and na ve passion and generous devotion, bold, as the _Bookman_ said, and frank in places, but never in the slightest degree morbid. He had met and married an American widow with quite a lot of money, and they had made a very distinct place for themselves, Kipps learnt, in the literary and artistic society of London. Helen seemed to dwell on the Revels a great deal; it was her exemplary story, and when she spoke of Sidney--she often called him Sidney--she would become thoughtful. She spoke most of him naturally because she had still to meet Mrs. Revel.... Certainly they would be in the world in no time, even if the distant connection with the Beaupres family came to nothing. Kipps gathered that with his marriage and the movement to London they were to undergo that subtle change of name Coote had first adumbrated. They were to become "Cuyps," Mr. and Mrs. Cuyps. Or, was it Cuyp? "It'll be rum at first," said Kipps. "I dessay I shall soon get into it."... So in their several ways they all contributed to enlarge and refine and exercise the intelligence of Kipps. And behind all these other influences, and, as it were, presiding over and correcting these influences, was Kipps' nearest friend, Coote, a sort of master of the ceremonies. You figure his face, blowing slightly with solicitude, his slate coloured, projecting but not unkindly eye intent upon our hero. The thing he thought was going off admirably. He studied Kipps' character immensely. He would discuss him with his sister, with Mrs. Walshingham, with the freckled girl, with anyone who would stand it. "He is an interesting character," he would say, "likable--a sort of gentleman by instinct. He takes to all these things. He improves every day. He'll soon get Sang Froid. We took him up just in time. He wants now--well----. Next year, perhaps, if there is a good Extension Literature course, he might go in for it. He wants to go in for something like that." "He's going in for his bicycle now," said Mrs. Walshingham. "That's all right for summer," said Coote, "but he wants to go in for some serious, intellectual interest, something to take him out of himself a little more. Savoir Faire and self-forgetfulness is more than half the secret of Sang Froid." 3 The world as Coote presented it was in part an endorsement, in part an amplification and in part a rectification of the world of Kipps, the world that derived from the old couple in New Romney and had been developed in the Emporium; the world, in fact, of common British life. There was the same subtle sense of social graduation that had moved Mrs. Kipps to prohibit intercourse with labourers' children and the same dread of anything "common" that had kept the personal quality of Mr. Shalford's establishment so high. But now a certain disagreeable doubt about Kipps' own position was removed and he stood with Coote inside the sphere of gentlemen assured. Within the sphere of gentlemen there are distinctions of rank indeed, but none of class; there are the Big People and the modest, refined, gentlemanly little people like Coote, who may even dabble in the professions and counterless trades; there are lords and magnificences, and there are gentle folk who have to manage, but they can all call on one another, they preserve a general equality of deportment throughout, they constitute that great state within the state, Society, or at any rate they make believe they do. "But reely," said the Pupil, "not what you call being in Society?" "Yes," said Coote. "Of course, down here one doesn't see much of it, but there's local society. It has the same rules." "Calling and all that?" "Precisely," said Coote. Kipps thought, whistled a bar, and suddenly broached a question of conscience. "I often wonder," he said, "whether I oughtn't to dress for dinner--when I'm alone 'ere." Coote protruded his lips and reflected. "Not full dress," he adjudicated; "that would be a little excessive. But you should _change_, you know. Put on a mess jacket and that sort of thing--easy dress. That is what _I_ should do, certainly, if I wasn't in harness--and poor." He coughed modestly and patted his hair behind. And after that the washing bill of Kipps quadrupled, and he was to be seen at times by the bandstand with his light summer overcoat unbuttoned to give a glimpse of his nice white tie. He and Coote would be smoking the gold-tipped cigarettes young Walshingham had prescribed as _chic_, and appreciating the music highly. "That's--puff--a very nice bit," Kipps would say, or better, "That's nace." And at the first grunts of the loyal anthem up they stood with religiously uplifted hats. Whatever else you might call them, you could never call them disloyal. The boundary of Society was admittedly very close to Coote and Kipps, and a leading solicitude of the true gentleman was to detect clearly those "beneath" him, and to behave towards them in a proper spirit. "It's jest there it's so 'ard for me," said Kipps. He had to cultivate a certain "distance," to acquire altogether the art of checking the presumption of bounders and old friends. It was difficult, Coote admitted. "That's what, so harkward--I mean awkward." "I got mixed up with this lot 'ere," said Kipps. "You could give them a hint," said Coote. "'Ow?" "Oh!--the occasion will suggest something." The occasion came one early closing night when Kipps was sitting in a canopy chair near the bandstand, with his summer overcoat fully open and a new Gibus pulled slightly forward over his brow, waiting for Coote. They were to hear the band for an hour and then go down to assist Miss Coote and the freckled girl in trying over some of Beethoven's duets, if they remembered them, that is, sufficiently well. And as Kipps lounged back in his chair and occupied his mind with his favourite amusement on such evenings, which consisted chiefly in supposing that everyone about him was wondering who he was, came a rude rap at the canvas back and the voice of Pierce. "It's nice to be a gentleman," said Pierce, and swung a penny chair into position while Buggins appeared smiling agreeably on the other side and leant upon his stick. _He was smoking a common briar pipe!_ Two real ladies, very fashionably dressed and sitting close at hand, glanced quickly at Pierce, and then away again, and it was evident _their_ wonder was at an end. "_He's_ all right," said Buggins, removing his pipe and surveying Kipps. "'Ello, Buggins!" said Kipps, not too cordially. "'Ow goes it?" "All right. Holiday's next week. If you don't look out, Kipps, I shall be on the Continong before you. Eh?" "You going t' Boologne?" "Ra-ther. Parley vous Francey. You bet." "_I_ shall 'ave a bit of a run over there one of these days," said Kipps. There came a pause. Pierce applied the top of his stick to his mouth for a space and regarded Kipps. Then he glanced at the people about them. "I say, Kipps," he said in a distinct, loud voice, "see 'er Ladyship lately?" Kipps perceived the audience was to be impressed, but he responded half-heartedly, "No, I 'aven't," he said. "She was along of Sir William the other night," said Pierce, still loud and clear, "and she asked to be remembered to you." It seemed to Kipps that one of the two ladies smiled faintly and said something to the other, and then certainly they glanced at Pierce. Kipps flushed scarlet. "_Did_ she?" he answered. Buggins laughed good-humouredly over his pipe. "Sir William suffers a lot from his gout," Pierce continued unabashed. (Buggins much amused with his pipe between his teeth.) Kipps became aware of Coote at hand. Coote nodded rather distantly to Pierce. "Hope I haven't kept you waiting, Kipps," he said. "I kep' a chair for you," said Kipps and removed a guardian foot. "But you've got your friends," said Coote. "Oh! _we_ don't mind," said Pierce cordially, "the more the merrier," and, "why don't you get a chair, Buggins?" Buggins shook his head in a sort of aside to Pierce and Coote coughed behind his hand. "Been kep' late at business?" asked Pierce. Coote turned quite pale and pretended not to hear. His eyes sought in space for a time and with a convulsive movement he recognised a distant acquaintance and raised his hat. Pierce had also become a little pale. He addressed himself to Kipps in an undertone. "Mr. Coote, isn't he?" he asked. Coote addressed himself to Kipps directly and exclusively. His manner had the calm of extreme tension. "I'm rather late," he said. "I think we ought almost to be going on _now_." Kipps stood up. "That's all right," he said. "Which way are you going?" said Pierce, standing also, and brushing some crumbs of cigarette ash from his sleeve. For a moment Coote was breathless. "Thank you," he said, and gasped. Then he delivered the necessary blow; "I don't think we're in need of your society, you know," and turned away. Kipps found himself falling over chairs and things in the wake of Coote, and then they were clear of the crowd. For a space Coote said nothing; then he remarked abruptly and quite angrily for him, "I think that was _awful_ Cheek!" Kipps made no reply.... The whole thing was an interesting little object lesson in distance, and it stuck in the front of Kipps' mind for a long time. He had particularly vivid the face of Pierce, with an expression between astonishment and anger. He felt as though he had struck Pierce in the face under circumstances that gave Pierce no power to reply. He did not attend very much to the duets and even forgot at the end of one of them to say how perfectly lovely it was. 4 But you must not imagine that the national ideal of a gentleman, as Coote developed it, was all a matter of deportment and selectness, a mere isolation from debasing associations. There is a Serious Side, a deeper aspect of the true, True Gentleman. The True Gentleman does not wear his heart on his sleeve. He is a polished surface above deeps. For example, he is deeply religious, as Coote was, as Mrs. Walshingham was, but outside the walls of a church it never appears, except perhaps now and then in a pause, in a profound look, in a sudden avoidance. In quite a little while Kipps also had learnt the pause, the profound look, the sudden avoidance, that final refinement of spirituality, impressionistic piety. And the True Gentleman is patriotic also. When one saw Coote lifting his hat to the National Anthem, then perhaps one got a glimpse of what patriotic emotions, what worship, the polish of a gentleman may hide. Or singing out his deep notes against the Hosts of Midian, in the St. Stylites choir; then indeed you plumbed his spiritual side. Christian, dost thou heed them, On the holy ground, How the hosts of Mid-i-an, Prowl and prowl around! Christian, up and smai-it them.... But these were but gleams. For the rest, Religion, Nationality, Passion, Money, Politics; much more so those cardinal issues, Birth and Death, the True Gentleman skirted about, and became facially rigid towards and ceased to speak and panted and blew. "One doesn't talk of that sort of thing," Coote would say with a gesture of the knuckly hand. "O' course," Kipps would reply, with an equal significance. Profundities. Deep as it were, blowing to deep. One does not talk, but on the other hand one is punctilious to do. Actions speak. Kipps--in spite of the fact that the Walshinghams were more than a little lax--Kipps, who had formerly flitted Sunday after Sunday from one Folkestone church to another, had now a sitting of his own, paid for duly at Saint Stylites. There he was to be seen, always at the surplice evening service, and sometimes of a morning, dressed with a sober precision, and with an eye on Coote in the chancel. No difficulties now about finding the place in his book. He became a communicant again--he had lapsed soon after his confirmation when the young lady in the costume-room, who was his adopted sister, left the Emporium--and he would sometimes go around to the Vestry for Coote after the service. One evening he was introduced to the Hon. and Rev. Densemore. He was much too confused to say anything, and the noble cleric had nothing to say, but indisputably they were introduced.... No! you must not imagine our national ideal of a gentleman is without its "serious side," without even its stern and uncompromising side. The imagination no doubt refuses to see Coote displaying extraordinary refinements of courage upon the stricken field, but in the walks of peace there is sometimes sore need of sternness. Charitable as one may be, one must admit there are people who _do_ things, impossible things; people who place themselves "out of it" in countless ways; people, moreover, who are by a sort of predestination out of it from the beginning, and against these Society has invented a terrible protection for its Cootery, the Cut. The cut is no joke for anyone. It is excommunication. You may be cut by an individual, you may be cut by a set or you may be--and this is so tragic that beautiful romances have been written about it--"Cut by the County." One figures Coote discharging this last duty and cutting somebody--Coote, erect and pale, never speaking, going past with eyes of pitiless slate, lower jaw protruding a little, face pursed up and cold and stiff.... It never dawned upon Kipps that he would one day have to face this terrible front, to be to Coote not only as one dead, but as one gone more than a stage or so in decay, cut and passed, banned and outcast for ever. Yet so it was to be! One cannot hide any longer that all this fine progress of Kipps is doomed to end in collapse. So far indeed you have seen him ascend. You have seen him becoming more refined and careful day by day, more carefully dressed, less clumsy in the ways and methods of social life. You have seen the gulf widening between himself and his former low associates. I have brought you at last to the vision of him, faultlessly dressed and posed, in an atmosphere of candlelight and chanting, in his own sitting in one of the most fashionable churches in Folkestone.... All the time I have refrained from the lightest touch upon the tragic note that must now creep into my tale. Yet the net of his low connections has been about his feet, and moreover there was something interwoven in his being.... CHAPTER VI DISCORDS 1 One day Kipps set out upon his newly-mastered bicycle to New Romney to break the news of his engagement to his Uncle and Aunt--this time positively. He was now a finished cyclist, but as yet an unseasoned one; the southwest wind, even in its summer guise, as one meets it in the Marsh, is the equivalent of a reasonable hill, and ever and again he got off and refreshed himself by a spell of walking. He was walking just outside New Romney preparatory to his triumphal entry (one hand off) when abruptly he came upon Ann Pornick. It chanced he was thinking about her at the time. He had been thinking curious things; whether, after all, the atmosphere of New Romney and the Marsh had not some difference, some faint impalpable quality that was missing in the great and fashionable world of Folkestone behind there on the hill. Here there was a homeliness, a familiarity. He had noted as he passed that old Mr. Cliffordown's gate had been mended with a fresh piece of

shyness

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

was a touch of motherliness in her feelings towards him. But his upbringing and his associations had been, she diagnosed, "awful." At New Romney she glanced but little; that was remote. But in her inventory--she went over him as one might go over a newly taken house, with impartial thoroughness--she discovered more proximate influences, surprising intimations of nocturnal "sing-songs"--she pictured it as almost shocking that Kipps should sing to the banjo--much low-grade wisdom treasured from a person called Buggins--"Who _is_ Buggins?" said Helen--vague figures of indisputable vulgarity, Pierce and Carshot, and more particularly, a very terrible social phenomenon, Chitterlow. Chitterlow blazed upon them with unheralded oppressive brilliance the first time they were abroad together. They were going along the front of the Leas to see a school play in Sandgate--at the last moment Mrs. Walshingham had been unable to come with them--when Chitterlow loomed up into the new world. He was wearing the suit of striped flannel and the straw hat that had followed Kipps' payment in advance for his course in elocution, his hands were deep in his side pockets and animated the corners of his jacket, and his attentive gaze at the passing loungers, the faint smile under his boldly drawn nose, showed him engaged in studying character--no doubt for some forthcoming play. "What HO!" said he, at the sight of Kipps, and swept off the straw hat with so ample a clutch of his great, flat hand that it suggested to Helen's startled mind a conjurer about to palm a half-penny. "'Ello, Chitt'low," said Kipps a little awkwardly and not saluting. Chitterlow hesitated. "Half a mo', my boy," he said, and arrested Kipps by extending a large hand over his chest. "Excuse me, my dear," he said, bowing like his Russian count by way of apology to Helen and with a smile that would have killed at a hundred yards. He affected a semi-confidential grouping of himself and Kipps while Helen stood in white amazement. "About that play," he said. "'Ow about it?" asked Kipps, acutely aware of Helen. "It's all right," said Chitterlow. "There's a strong smell of syndicate in the air, I may tell you--Strong." "That's aw right," said Kipps. "You needn't tell everybody," said Chitterlow with a transitory, confidential hand to his mouth, which pointed the application of the "everybody" just a trifle too strongly. "But I think it's coming off. However----. I mustn't detain you now. So long. You'll come 'round, eh?" "Right you are," said Kipps. "To-night?" "At eight." And then, and more in the manner of a Russian prince than any common count, Chitterlow bowed and withdrew. Just for a moment he allowed a conquering eye to challenge Helen's and noted her for a girl of quality.... There was a silence between our lovers for a space. "That," said Kipps with an allusive movement of the head, "was Chitterlow." "Is he--a friend of yours?" "In a way.... You see--I met 'im. Leastways 'e met me. Run into me with a bicycle, 'e did, and so we got talking together." He tried to appear at his ease. The young lady scrutinised his profile. "What is he?" "'E's a Nacter chap," said Kipps. "Leastways 'e writes plays." "And sells them?" "Partly." "Whom to?" "Different people. Shares he sells.... It's all right, reely--I meant to tell you about him before." Helen looked over her shoulder to catch a view of Chitterlow's retreating aspect. It did not compel her complete confidence. She turned to her lover and said in a tone of quiet authority, "You must tell me all about Chitterlow. Now." The explanation began.... The School Play came almost as a relief to Kipps. In the flusterment of going in he could almost forget for a time his Laocoon struggle to explain, and in the intervals he did his best to keep forgetting. But Helen, with a gentle insistence, resumed the explanation of Chitterlow as they returned towards Folkestone. Chitterlow was confoundedly difficult to explain. You could hardly imagine! There was an almost motherly anxiety in Helen's manner, blended with the resolution of a schoolmistress to get to the bottom of the affair. Kipps' ears were soon quite brightly red. "Have you seen one of his plays?" "'E's tole me about one." "But on the stage." "No. He 'asn't 'ad any on the stage yet. That's all coming...." "Promise me," she said in conclusion, "you won't do anything without consulting me." And of course Kipps promised. "Oo--no!" They went on their way in silence. "One can't know everybody," said Helen in general. "Of course," said Kipps; "in a sort of way it was him that helped me to my money." And he indicated in a confused manner the story of the advertisement. "I don't like to drop 'im all at once," he added. Helen was silent for a space, and when she spoke she went off at a tangent. "We shall live in London--soon," she remarked. "It's only while we are here." It was the first intimation she gave him of their post-nuptial prospects. "We shall have a nice little flat somewhere, not too far west, and there we shall build up a circle of our own." 2 All that declining summer Kipps was the pupil lover. He made an extraordinarily open secret of his desire for self-improvement; indeed Helen had to hint once or twice that his modest frankness was excessive, and all this new circle of friends did, each after his or her manner, everything that was possible to supplement Helen's efforts and help him to ease and skill in the more cultivated circles to which he had come. Coote was still the chief teacher, the tutor--there are so many little difficulties that a man may take to another man that he would not care to propound to the woman he loves--but they were all, so to speak, upon the staff. Even the freckled girl said to him once in a pleasant way, "You mustn't say "contre temps," you must say "contraytom,"" when he borrowed that expression from "Manners and Rules," and she tried at his own suggestion to give him clear ideas upon the subject of "as" and "has." A certain confusion between these words was becoming evident, the first fruits of a lesson from Chitterlow on the aspirate. Hitherto he had discarded that dangerous letter almost altogether, but now he would pull up at words beginning with "h" and draw a sawing breath--rather like a startled kitten--and then aspirate with vigour. Said Kipps one day, "_As_ 'e?--I should say, ah--Has 'e? Ye know I got a lot of difficulty over them two words, which is which?" "Well, 'as' is a conjunction and 'has' is a verb." "I know," said Kipps, "but when is 'has' a conjunction and when is 'as' a verb?" "Well," said the freckled girl, preparing to be very lucid. "It's _has_ when it means one has, meaning having, but if it isn't it's _as_. As for instance one says 'e--I mean _he_--He has. But one says 'as he has.'" "I see," said Kipps. "So I ought to say 'as 'e?'" "No, if you are asking a question you say _has_ 'e--I mean he--'as he?" She blushed quite brightly, but still clung to her air of lucidity. "I see," said Kipps. He was about to say something further, but he desisted. "I got it much clearer now. _Has_ 'e? _Has_ 'e as. Yes." "If you remember about having." "Oo I will," said Kipps. Miss Coote specialised in Kipps' artistic development. She had early found an opinion that he had considerable artistic sensibility, his remarks on her work had struck her as decidedly intelligent, and whenever he called around to see them she would show him some work of art, now an illustrated book, now perhaps a colour print of a Botticelli, now the Hundred Best Paintings, now "Academy Pictures," now a German art handbook and now some magazine of furniture and design. "I know you like these things," she used to say, and Kipps said, "Oo I _do_." He soon acquired a little armoury of appreciative sayings. When presently the Walshinghams took him up to the Arts and Crafts, his deportment was intelligent in the extreme. For a time he kept a wary silence and suddenly pitched upon a colour print. "That's rather nace," he said to Mrs. Walshingham. "That lill' thing. There." He always said things like that by preference to the mother rather than the daughter unless he was perfectly sure. He quite took to Mrs. Walshingham. He was impressed by her conspicuous tact and refinement; it seemed to him that the ladylike could go no further. She was always dressed with a delicate fussiness that was never disarranged and even a sort of faded quality about her hair and face and bearing and emotions contributed to her effect. Kipps was not a big man, and commonly he did not feel a big man, but with Mrs. Walshingham he always felt enormous and distended, as though he was a navvy who had taken some disagreeable poison which puffed him up inside his skin as a preliminary to bursting. He felt, too, as though he had been rolled in clay and his hair dressed with gum. And he felt that his voice was strident and his accent like somebody swinging a crowded pig's pail in a free and careless manner. All this increased and enforced his respect for her. Her hand, which flitted often and again to his hand and arm, was singularly well shaped and cool. "Arthur," she called him from the very beginning. She did not so much positively teach and tell him as tactfully guide and infect him. Her conversation was not so much didactic as exemplary. She would say, "I _do_ like people to do" so and so. She would tell him anecdotes of nice things done, of gentlemanly feats of graceful consideration; she would record her neat observations of people in trains and omnibuses; how, for example, a man had passed her change to the conductor, "quite a common man he looked," but he had lifted his hat. She stamped Kipps so deeply with the hat-raising habit that he would uncover if he found himself in the same railway ticket office with a lady had to stand ceremoniously until the difficulties of change drove him to an apologetic provisional oblique resumption of his headgear.... And robbing these things of any air of personal application, she threw about them an abundant talk about her two children--she called them her Twin Jewels quite frequently--about their gifts, their temperaments, their ambition, their need of opportunity. They needed opportunity, she would say, as other people needed air.... In his conversations with her Kipps always assumed, and she seemed to assume, that she was to join that home in London Helen foreshadowed, but he was surprised one day to gather that this was not to be the case. "It wouldn't do," said Helen, with decision. "We want to make a circle of our own." "But won't she be a bit lonely down here?" asked Kipps. "There's the Waces, and Mrs. Prebble and Mrs. Bindon Botting and--lots of people she knows." And Helen dismissed this possibility.... Young Walshingham's share in the educational syndicate was smaller. But he shone out when they went to London on that Arts and Crafts expedition. Then this rising man of affairs showed Kipps how to buy the more theatrical weeklies for consumption in the train, how to buy and what to buy in the way of cigarettes with gold tips and shilling cigars, and how to order hock for lunch and sparkling Moselle for dinner, how to calculate the fare of a hansom cab--penny a minute while he goes--how to look intelligently at an hotel tape, and how to sit still in a train like a thoughtful man instead of talking like a fool and giving yourself away. And he, too, would glance at the good time coming when they were to be in London for good and all. That prospect expanded and developed particulars. It presently took up a large part of Helen's conversation. Her conversations with Kipps were never of a grossly sentimental sort; there was a shyness of speech in that matter with both of them, but these new adumbrations were at least as interesting and not so directly disagreeable as the clear-cut intimations of personal defect that for a time had so greatly chastened Kipps' delight in her presence. The future presented itself with an almost perfect frankness as a joint campaign of Mrs. Walshingham's Twin Jewels upon the Great World, with Kipps in the capacity of baggage and supply. They would still be dreadfully poor, of course--this amazed Kipps, but he said nothing--until "Brudderkins" began to succeed, but if they were clever and lucky they might do a great deal. When Helen spoke of London a brooding look, as of one who contemplates a distant country, came into her eyes. Already it seemed they had the nucleus of a set. Brudderkins was a member of the Theatrical Judges, an excellent and influential little club of journalists and literary people, and he knew Shimer and Stargate and Whiffle, of the "Red Dragon," and besides these were the Revels. They knew the Revels quite well. Sidney Revel before his rapid rise to prominence as a writer of epigrammatic essays that were quite above the ordinary public, had been an assistant master at one of the best Folkestone schools, Brudderkins had brought him home to tea several times, and it was he had first suggested Helen should try and write. "It's perfectly easy," Sidney had said. He had been writing occasional things for the evening papers, and for the weekly reviews even at that time. Then he had gone up to London and had almost unavoidedly become a dramatic critic. Those brilliant essays had followed, and then "Red Hearts a-Beating," the romance that had made him. It was a tale of spirited adventure, full of youth and beauty and na ve passion and generous devotion, bold, as the _Bookman_ said, and frank in places, but never in the slightest degree morbid. He had met and married an American widow with quite a lot of money, and they had made a very distinct place for themselves, Kipps learnt, in the literary and artistic society of London. Helen seemed to dwell on the Revels a great deal; it was her exemplary story, and when she spoke of Sidney--she often called him Sidney--she would become thoughtful. She spoke most of him naturally because she had still to meet Mrs. Revel.... Certainly they would be in the world in no time, even if the distant connection with the Beaupres family came to nothing. Kipps gathered that with his marriage and the movement to London they were to undergo that subtle change of name Coote had first adumbrated. They were to become "Cuyps," Mr. and Mrs. Cuyps. Or, was it Cuyp? "It'll be rum at first," said Kipps. "I dessay I shall soon get into it."... So in their several ways they all contributed to enlarge and refine and exercise the intelligence of Kipps. And behind all these other influences, and, as it were, presiding over and correcting these influences, was Kipps' nearest friend, Coote, a sort of master of the ceremonies. You figure his face, blowing slightly with solicitude, his slate coloured, projecting but not unkindly eye intent upon our hero. The thing he thought was going off admirably. He studied Kipps' character immensely. He would discuss him with his sister, with Mrs. Walshingham, with the freckled girl, with anyone who would stand it. "He is an interesting character," he would say, "likable--a sort of gentleman by instinct. He takes to all these things. He improves every day. He'll soon get Sang Froid. We took him up just in time. He wants now--well----. Next year, perhaps, if there is a good Extension Literature course, he might go in for it. He wants to go in for something like that." "He's going in for his bicycle now," said Mrs. Walshingham. "That's all right for summer," said Coote, "but he wants to go in for some serious, intellectual interest, something to take him out of himself a little more. Savoir Faire and self-forgetfulness is more than half the secret of Sang Froid." 3 The world as Coote presented it was in part an endorsement, in part an amplification and in part a rectification of the world of Kipps, the world that derived from the old couple in New Romney and had been developed in the Emporium; the world, in fact, of common British life. There was the same subtle sense of social graduation that had moved Mrs. Kipps to prohibit intercourse with labourers' children and the same dread of anything "common" that had kept the personal quality of Mr. Shalford's establishment so high. But now a certain disagreeable doubt about Kipps' own position was removed and he stood with Coote inside the sphere of gentlemen assured. Within the sphere of gentlemen there are distinctions of rank indeed, but none of class; there are the Big People and the modest, refined, gentlemanly little people like Coote, who may even dabble in the professions and counterless trades; there are lords and magnificences, and there are gentle folk who have to manage, but they can all call on one another, they preserve a general equality of deportment throughout, they constitute that great state within the state, Society, or at any rate they make believe they do. "But reely," said the Pupil, "not what you call being in Society?" "Yes," said Coote. "Of course, down here one doesn't see much of it, but there's local society. It has the same rules." "Calling and all that?" "Precisely," said Coote. Kipps thought, whistled a bar, and suddenly broached a question of conscience. "I often wonder," he said, "whether I oughtn't to dress for dinner--when I'm alone 'ere." Coote protruded his lips and reflected. "Not full dress," he adjudicated; "that would be a little excessive. But you should _change_, you know. Put on a mess jacket and that sort of thing--easy dress. That is what _I_ should do, certainly, if I wasn't in harness--and poor." He coughed modestly and patted his hair behind. And after that the washing bill of Kipps quadrupled, and he was to be seen at times by the bandstand with his light summer overcoat unbuttoned to give a glimpse of his nice white tie. He and Coote would be smoking the gold-tipped cigarettes young Walshingham had prescribed as _chic_, and appreciating the music highly. "That's--puff--a very nice bit," Kipps would say, or better, "That's nace." And at the first grunts of the loyal anthem up they stood with religiously uplifted hats. Whatever else you might call them, you could never call them disloyal. The boundary of Society was admittedly very close to Coote and Kipps, and a leading solicitude of the true gentleman was to detect clearly those "beneath" him, and to behave towards them in a proper spirit. "It's jest there it's so 'ard for me," said Kipps. He had to cultivate a certain "distance," to acquire altogether the art of checking the presumption of bounders and old friends. It was difficult, Coote admitted. "That's what, so harkward--I mean awkward." "I got mixed up with this lot 'ere," said Kipps. "You could give them a hint," said Coote. "'Ow?" "Oh!--the occasion will suggest something." The occasion came one early closing night when Kipps was sitting in a canopy chair near the bandstand, with his summer overcoat fully open and a new Gibus pulled slightly forward over his brow, waiting for Coote. They were to hear the band for an hour and then go down to assist Miss Coote and the freckled girl in trying over some of Beethoven's duets, if they remembered them, that is, sufficiently well. And as Kipps lounged back in his chair and occupied his mind with his favourite amusement on such evenings, which consisted chiefly in supposing that everyone about him was wondering who he was, came a rude rap at the canvas back and the voice of Pierce. "It's nice to be a gentleman," said Pierce, and swung a penny chair into position while Buggins appeared smiling agreeably on the other side and leant upon his stick. _He was smoking a common briar pipe!_ Two real ladies, very fashionably dressed and sitting close at hand, glanced quickly at Pierce, and then away again, and it was evident _their_ wonder was at an end. "_He's_ all right," said Buggins, removing his pipe and surveying Kipps. "'Ello, Buggins!" said Kipps, not too cordially. "'Ow goes it?" "All right. Holiday's next week. If you don't look out, Kipps, I shall be on the Continong before you. Eh?" "You going t' Boologne?" "Ra-ther. Parley vous Francey. You bet." "_I_ shall 'ave a bit of a run over there one of these days," said Kipps. There came a pause. Pierce applied the top of his stick to his mouth for a space and regarded Kipps. Then he glanced at the people about them. "I say, Kipps," he said in a distinct, loud voice, "see 'er Ladyship lately?" Kipps perceived the audience was to be impressed, but he responded half-heartedly, "No, I 'aven't," he said. "She was along of Sir William the other night," said Pierce, still loud and clear, "and she asked to be remembered to you." It seemed to Kipps that one of the two ladies smiled faintly and said something to the other, and then certainly they glanced at Pierce. Kipps flushed scarlet. "_Did_ she?" he answered. Buggins laughed good-humouredly over his pipe. "Sir William suffers a lot from his gout," Pierce continued unabashed. (Buggins much amused with his pipe between his teeth.) Kipps became aware of Coote at hand. Coote nodded rather distantly to Pierce. "Hope I haven't kept you waiting, Kipps," he said. "I kep' a chair for you," said Kipps and removed a guardian foot. "But you've got your friends," said Coote. "Oh! _we_ don't mind," said Pierce cordially, "the more the merrier," and, "why don't you get a chair, Buggins?" Buggins shook his head in a sort of aside to Pierce and Coote coughed behind his hand. "Been kep' late at business?" asked Pierce. Coote turned quite pale and pretended not to hear. His eyes sought in space for a time and with a convulsive movement he recognised a distant acquaintance and raised his hat. Pierce had also become a little pale. He addressed himself to Kipps in an undertone. "Mr. Coote, isn't he?" he asked. Coote addressed himself to Kipps directly and exclusively. His manner had the calm of extreme tension. "I'm rather late," he said. "I think we ought almost to be going on _now_." Kipps stood up. "That's all right," he said. "Which way are you going?" said Pierce, standing also, and brushing some crumbs of cigarette ash from his sleeve. For a moment Coote was breathless. "Thank you," he said, and gasped. Then he delivered the necessary blow; "I don't think we're in need of your society, you know," and turned away. Kipps found himself falling over chairs and things in the wake of Coote, and then they were clear of the crowd. For a space Coote said nothing; then he remarked abruptly and quite angrily for him, "I think that was _awful_ Cheek!" Kipps made no reply.... The whole thing was an interesting little object lesson in distance, and it stuck in the front of Kipps' mind for a long time. He had particularly vivid the face of Pierce, with an expression between astonishment and anger. He felt as though he had struck Pierce in the face under circumstances that gave Pierce no power to reply. He did not attend very much to the duets and even forgot at the end of one of them to say how perfectly lovely it was. 4 But you must not imagine that the national ideal of a gentleman, as Coote developed it, was all a matter of deportment and selectness, a mere isolation from debasing associations. There is a Serious Side, a deeper aspect of the true, True Gentleman. The True Gentleman does not wear his heart on his sleeve. He is a polished surface above deeps. For example, he is deeply religious, as Coote was, as Mrs. Walshingham was, but outside the walls of a church it never appears, except perhaps now and then in a pause, in a profound look, in a sudden avoidance. In quite a little while Kipps also had learnt the pause, the profound look, the sudden avoidance, that final refinement of spirituality, impressionistic piety. And the True Gentleman is patriotic also. When one saw Coote lifting his hat to the National Anthem, then perhaps one got a glimpse of what patriotic emotions, what worship, the polish of a gentleman may hide. Or singing out his deep notes against the Hosts of Midian, in the St. Stylites choir; then indeed you plumbed his spiritual side. Christian, dost thou heed them, On the holy ground, How the hosts of Mid-i-an, Prowl and prowl around! Christian, up and smai-it them.... But these were but gleams. For the rest, Religion, Nationality, Passion, Money, Politics; much more so those cardinal issues, Birth and Death, the True Gentleman skirted about, and became facially rigid towards and ceased to speak and panted and blew. "One doesn't talk of that sort of thing," Coote would say with a gesture of the knuckly hand. "O' course," Kipps would reply, with an equal significance. Profundities. Deep as it were, blowing to deep. One does not talk, but on the other hand one is punctilious to do. Actions speak. Kipps--in spite of the fact that the Walshinghams were more than a little lax--Kipps, who had formerly flitted Sunday after Sunday from one Folkestone church to another, had now a sitting of his own, paid for duly at Saint Stylites. There he was to be seen, always at the surplice evening service, and sometimes of a morning, dressed with a sober precision, and with an eye on Coote in the chancel. No difficulties now about finding the place in his book. He became a communicant again--he had lapsed soon after his confirmation when the young lady in the costume-room, who was his adopted sister, left the Emporium--and he would sometimes go around to the Vestry for Coote after the service. One evening he was introduced to the Hon. and Rev. Densemore. He was much too confused to say anything, and the noble cleric had nothing to say, but indisputably they were introduced.... No! you must not imagine our national ideal of a gentleman is without its "serious side," without even its stern and uncompromising side. The imagination no doubt refuses to see Coote displaying extraordinary refinements of courage upon the stricken field, but in the walks of peace there is sometimes sore need of sternness. Charitable as one may be, one must admit there are people who _do_ things, impossible things; people who place themselves "out of it" in countless ways; people, moreover, who are by a sort of predestination out of it from the beginning, and against these Society has invented a terrible protection for its Cootery, the Cut. The cut is no joke for anyone. It is excommunication. You may be cut by an individual, you may be cut by a set or you may be--and this is so tragic that beautiful romances have been written about it--"Cut by the County." One figures Coote discharging this last duty and cutting somebody--Coote, erect and pale, never speaking, going past with eyes of pitiless slate, lower jaw protruding a little, face pursed up and cold and stiff.... It never dawned upon Kipps that he would one day have to face this terrible front, to be to Coote not only as one dead, but as one gone more than a stage or so in decay, cut and passed, banned and outcast for ever. Yet so it was to be! One cannot hide any longer that all this fine progress of Kipps is doomed to end in collapse. So far indeed you have seen him ascend. You have seen him becoming more refined and careful day by day, more carefully dressed, less clumsy in the ways and methods of social life. You have seen the gulf widening between himself and his former low associates. I have brought you at last to the vision of him, faultlessly dressed and posed, in an atmosphere of candlelight and chanting, in his own sitting in one of the most fashionable churches in Folkestone.... All the time I have refrained from the lightest touch upon the tragic note that must now creep into my tale. Yet the net of his low connections has been about his feet, and moreover there was something interwoven in his being.... CHAPTER VI DISCORDS 1 One day Kipps set out upon his newly-mastered bicycle to New Romney to break the news of his engagement to his Uncle and Aunt--this time positively. He was now a finished cyclist, but as yet an unseasoned one; the southwest wind, even in its summer guise, as one meets it in the Marsh, is the equivalent of a reasonable hill, and ever and again he got off and refreshed himself by a spell of walking. He was walking just outside New Romney preparatory to his triumphal entry (one hand off) when abruptly he came upon Ann Pornick. It chanced he was thinking about her at the time. He had been thinking curious things; whether, after all, the atmosphere of New Romney and the Marsh had not some difference, some faint impalpable quality that was missing in the great and fashionable world of Folkestone behind there on the hill. Here there was a homeliness, a familiarity. He had noted as he passed that old Mr. Cliffordown's gate had been mended with a fresh piece of

unacceptable

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

was a touch of motherliness in her feelings towards him. But his upbringing and his associations had been, she diagnosed, "awful." At New Romney she glanced but little; that was remote. But in her inventory--she went over him as one might go over a newly taken house, with impartial thoroughness--she discovered more proximate influences, surprising intimations of nocturnal "sing-songs"--she pictured it as almost shocking that Kipps should sing to the banjo--much low-grade wisdom treasured from a person called Buggins--"Who _is_ Buggins?" said Helen--vague figures of indisputable vulgarity, Pierce and Carshot, and more particularly, a very terrible social phenomenon, Chitterlow. Chitterlow blazed upon them with unheralded oppressive brilliance the first time they were abroad together. They were going along the front of the Leas to see a school play in Sandgate--at the last moment Mrs. Walshingham had been unable to come with them--when Chitterlow loomed up into the new world. He was wearing the suit of striped flannel and the straw hat that had followed Kipps' payment in advance for his course in elocution, his hands were deep in his side pockets and animated the corners of his jacket, and his attentive gaze at the passing loungers, the faint smile under his boldly drawn nose, showed him engaged in studying character--no doubt for some forthcoming play. "What HO!" said he, at the sight of Kipps, and swept off the straw hat with so ample a clutch of his great, flat hand that it suggested to Helen's startled mind a conjurer about to palm a half-penny. "'Ello, Chitt'low," said Kipps a little awkwardly and not saluting. Chitterlow hesitated. "Half a mo', my boy," he said, and arrested Kipps by extending a large hand over his chest. "Excuse me, my dear," he said, bowing like his Russian count by way of apology to Helen and with a smile that would have killed at a hundred yards. He affected a semi-confidential grouping of himself and Kipps while Helen stood in white amazement. "About that play," he said. "'Ow about it?" asked Kipps, acutely aware of Helen. "It's all right," said Chitterlow. "There's a strong smell of syndicate in the air, I may tell you--Strong." "That's aw right," said Kipps. "You needn't tell everybody," said Chitterlow with a transitory, confidential hand to his mouth, which pointed the application of the "everybody" just a trifle too strongly. "But I think it's coming off. However----. I mustn't detain you now. So long. You'll come 'round, eh?" "Right you are," said Kipps. "To-night?" "At eight." And then, and more in the manner of a Russian prince than any common count, Chitterlow bowed and withdrew. Just for a moment he allowed a conquering eye to challenge Helen's and noted her for a girl of quality.... There was a silence between our lovers for a space. "That," said Kipps with an allusive movement of the head, "was Chitterlow." "Is he--a friend of yours?" "In a way.... You see--I met 'im. Leastways 'e met me. Run into me with a bicycle, 'e did, and so we got talking together." He tried to appear at his ease. The young lady scrutinised his profile. "What is he?" "'E's a Nacter chap," said Kipps. "Leastways 'e writes plays." "And sells them?" "Partly." "Whom to?" "Different people. Shares he sells.... It's all right, reely--I meant to tell you about him before." Helen looked over her shoulder to catch a view of Chitterlow's retreating aspect. It did not compel her complete confidence. She turned to her lover and said in a tone of quiet authority, "You must tell me all about Chitterlow. Now." The explanation began.... The School Play came almost as a relief to Kipps. In the flusterment of going in he could almost forget for a time his Laocoon struggle to explain, and in the intervals he did his best to keep forgetting. But Helen, with a gentle insistence, resumed the explanation of Chitterlow as they returned towards Folkestone. Chitterlow was confoundedly difficult to explain. You could hardly imagine! There was an almost motherly anxiety in Helen's manner, blended with the resolution of a schoolmistress to get to the bottom of the affair. Kipps' ears were soon quite brightly red. "Have you seen one of his plays?" "'E's tole me about one." "But on the stage." "No. He 'asn't 'ad any on the stage yet. That's all coming...." "Promise me," she said in conclusion, "you won't do anything without consulting me." And of course Kipps promised. "Oo--no!" They went on their way in silence. "One can't know everybody," said Helen in general. "Of course," said Kipps; "in a sort of way it was him that helped me to my money." And he indicated in a confused manner the story of the advertisement. "I don't like to drop 'im all at once," he added. Helen was silent for a space, and when she spoke she went off at a tangent. "We shall live in London--soon," she remarked. "It's only while we are here." It was the first intimation she gave him of their post-nuptial prospects. "We shall have a nice little flat somewhere, not too far west, and there we shall build up a circle of our own." 2 All that declining summer Kipps was the pupil lover. He made an extraordinarily open secret of his desire for self-improvement; indeed Helen had to hint once or twice that his modest frankness was excessive, and all this new circle of friends did, each after his or her manner, everything that was possible to supplement Helen's efforts and help him to ease and skill in the more cultivated circles to which he had come. Coote was still the chief teacher, the tutor--there are so many little difficulties that a man may take to another man that he would not care to propound to the woman he loves--but they were all, so to speak, upon the staff. Even the freckled girl said to him once in a pleasant way, "You mustn't say "contre temps," you must say "contraytom,"" when he borrowed that expression from "Manners and Rules," and she tried at his own suggestion to give him clear ideas upon the subject of "as" and "has." A certain confusion between these words was becoming evident, the first fruits of a lesson from Chitterlow on the aspirate. Hitherto he had discarded that dangerous letter almost altogether, but now he would pull up at words beginning with "h" and draw a sawing breath--rather like a startled kitten--and then aspirate with vigour. Said Kipps one day, "_As_ 'e?--I should say, ah--Has 'e? Ye know I got a lot of difficulty over them two words, which is which?" "Well, 'as' is a conjunction and 'has' is a verb." "I know," said Kipps, "but when is 'has' a conjunction and when is 'as' a verb?" "Well," said the freckled girl, preparing to be very lucid. "It's _has_ when it means one has, meaning having, but if it isn't it's _as_. As for instance one says 'e--I mean _he_--He has. But one says 'as he has.'" "I see," said Kipps. "So I ought to say 'as 'e?'" "No, if you are asking a question you say _has_ 'e--I mean he--'as he?" She blushed quite brightly, but still clung to her air of lucidity. "I see," said Kipps. He was about to say something further, but he desisted. "I got it much clearer now. _Has_ 'e? _Has_ 'e as. Yes." "If you remember about having." "Oo I will," said Kipps. Miss Coote specialised in Kipps' artistic development. She had early found an opinion that he had considerable artistic sensibility, his remarks on her work had struck her as decidedly intelligent, and whenever he called around to see them she would show him some work of art, now an illustrated book, now perhaps a colour print of a Botticelli, now the Hundred Best Paintings, now "Academy Pictures," now a German art handbook and now some magazine of furniture and design. "I know you like these things," she used to say, and Kipps said, "Oo I _do_." He soon acquired a little armoury of appreciative sayings. When presently the Walshinghams took him up to the Arts and Crafts, his deportment was intelligent in the extreme. For a time he kept a wary silence and suddenly pitched upon a colour print. "That's rather nace," he said to Mrs. Walshingham. "That lill' thing. There." He always said things like that by preference to the mother rather than the daughter unless he was perfectly sure. He quite took to Mrs. Walshingham. He was impressed by her conspicuous tact and refinement; it seemed to him that the ladylike could go no further. She was always dressed with a delicate fussiness that was never disarranged and even a sort of faded quality about her hair and face and bearing and emotions contributed to her effect. Kipps was not a big man, and commonly he did not feel a big man, but with Mrs. Walshingham he always felt enormous and distended, as though he was a navvy who had taken some disagreeable poison which puffed him up inside his skin as a preliminary to bursting. He felt, too, as though he had been rolled in clay and his hair dressed with gum. And he felt that his voice was strident and his accent like somebody swinging a crowded pig's pail in a free and careless manner. All this increased and enforced his respect for her. Her hand, which flitted often and again to his hand and arm, was singularly well shaped and cool. "Arthur," she called him from the very beginning. She did not so much positively teach and tell him as tactfully guide and infect him. Her conversation was not so much didactic as exemplary. She would say, "I _do_ like people to do" so and so. She would tell him anecdotes of nice things done, of gentlemanly feats of graceful consideration; she would record her neat observations of people in trains and omnibuses; how, for example, a man had passed her change to the conductor, "quite a common man he looked," but he had lifted his hat. She stamped Kipps so deeply with the hat-raising habit that he would uncover if he found himself in the same railway ticket office with a lady had to stand ceremoniously until the difficulties of change drove him to an apologetic provisional oblique resumption of his headgear.... And robbing these things of any air of personal application, she threw about them an abundant talk about her two children--she called them her Twin Jewels quite frequently--about their gifts, their temperaments, their ambition, their need of opportunity. They needed opportunity, she would say, as other people needed air.... In his conversations with her Kipps always assumed, and she seemed to assume, that she was to join that home in London Helen foreshadowed, but he was surprised one day to gather that this was not to be the case. "It wouldn't do," said Helen, with decision. "We want to make a circle of our own." "But won't she be a bit lonely down here?" asked Kipps. "There's the Waces, and Mrs. Prebble and Mrs. Bindon Botting and--lots of people she knows." And Helen dismissed this possibility.... Young Walshingham's share in the educational syndicate was smaller. But he shone out when they went to London on that Arts and Crafts expedition. Then this rising man of affairs showed Kipps how to buy the more theatrical weeklies for consumption in the train, how to buy and what to buy in the way of cigarettes with gold tips and shilling cigars, and how to order hock for lunch and sparkling Moselle for dinner, how to calculate the fare of a hansom cab--penny a minute while he goes--how to look intelligently at an hotel tape, and how to sit still in a train like a thoughtful man instead of talking like a fool and giving yourself away. And he, too, would glance at the good time coming when they were to be in London for good and all. That prospect expanded and developed particulars. It presently took up a large part of Helen's conversation. Her conversations with Kipps were never of a grossly sentimental sort; there was a shyness of speech in that matter with both of them, but these new adumbrations were at least as interesting and not so directly disagreeable as the clear-cut intimations of personal defect that for a time had so greatly chastened Kipps' delight in her presence. The future presented itself with an almost perfect frankness as a joint campaign of Mrs. Walshingham's Twin Jewels upon the Great World, with Kipps in the capacity of baggage and supply. They would still be dreadfully poor, of course--this amazed Kipps, but he said nothing--until "Brudderkins" began to succeed, but if they were clever and lucky they might do a great deal. When Helen spoke of London a brooding look, as of one who contemplates a distant country, came into her eyes. Already it seemed they had the nucleus of a set. Brudderkins was a member of the Theatrical Judges, an excellent and influential little club of journalists and literary people, and he knew Shimer and Stargate and Whiffle, of the "Red Dragon," and besides these were the Revels. They knew the Revels quite well. Sidney Revel before his rapid rise to prominence as a writer of epigrammatic essays that were quite above the ordinary public, had been an assistant master at one of the best Folkestone schools, Brudderkins had brought him home to tea several times, and it was he had first suggested Helen should try and write. "It's perfectly easy," Sidney had said. He had been writing occasional things for the evening papers, and for the weekly reviews even at that time. Then he had gone up to London and had almost unavoidedly become a dramatic critic. Those brilliant essays had followed, and then "Red Hearts a-Beating," the romance that had made him. It was a tale of spirited adventure, full of youth and beauty and na ve passion and generous devotion, bold, as the _Bookman_ said, and frank in places, but never in the slightest degree morbid. He had met and married an American widow with quite a lot of money, and they had made a very distinct place for themselves, Kipps learnt, in the literary and artistic society of London. Helen seemed to dwell on the Revels a great deal; it was her exemplary story, and when she spoke of Sidney--she often called him Sidney--she would become thoughtful. She spoke most of him naturally because she had still to meet Mrs. Revel.... Certainly they would be in the world in no time, even if the distant connection with the Beaupres family came to nothing. Kipps gathered that with his marriage and the movement to London they were to undergo that subtle change of name Coote had first adumbrated. They were to become "Cuyps," Mr. and Mrs. Cuyps. Or, was it Cuyp? "It'll be rum at first," said Kipps. "I dessay I shall soon get into it."... So in their several ways they all contributed to enlarge and refine and exercise the intelligence of Kipps. And behind all these other influences, and, as it were, presiding over and correcting these influences, was Kipps' nearest friend, Coote, a sort of master of the ceremonies. You figure his face, blowing slightly with solicitude, his slate coloured, projecting but not unkindly eye intent upon our hero. The thing he thought was going off admirably. He studied Kipps' character immensely. He would discuss him with his sister, with Mrs. Walshingham, with the freckled girl, with anyone who would stand it. "He is an interesting character," he would say, "likable--a sort of gentleman by instinct. He takes to all these things. He improves every day. He'll soon get Sang Froid. We took him up just in time. He wants now--well----. Next year, perhaps, if there is a good Extension Literature course, he might go in for it. He wants to go in for something like that." "He's going in for his bicycle now," said Mrs. Walshingham. "That's all right for summer," said Coote, "but he wants to go in for some serious, intellectual interest, something to take him out of himself a little more. Savoir Faire and self-forgetfulness is more than half the secret of Sang Froid." 3 The world as Coote presented it was in part an endorsement, in part an amplification and in part a rectification of the world of Kipps, the world that derived from the old couple in New Romney and had been developed in the Emporium; the world, in fact, of common British life. There was the same subtle sense of social graduation that had moved Mrs. Kipps to prohibit intercourse with labourers' children and the same dread of anything "common" that had kept the personal quality of Mr. Shalford's establishment so high. But now a certain disagreeable doubt about Kipps' own position was removed and he stood with Coote inside the sphere of gentlemen assured. Within the sphere of gentlemen there are distinctions of rank indeed, but none of class; there are the Big People and the modest, refined, gentlemanly little people like Coote, who may even dabble in the professions and counterless trades; there are lords and magnificences, and there are gentle folk who have to manage, but they can all call on one another, they preserve a general equality of deportment throughout, they constitute that great state within the state, Society, or at any rate they make believe they do. "But reely," said the Pupil, "not what you call being in Society?" "Yes," said Coote. "Of course, down here one doesn't see much of it, but there's local society. It has the same rules." "Calling and all that?" "Precisely," said Coote. Kipps thought, whistled a bar, and suddenly broached a question of conscience. "I often wonder," he said, "whether I oughtn't to dress for dinner--when I'm alone 'ere." Coote protruded his lips and reflected. "Not full dress," he adjudicated; "that would be a little excessive. But you should _change_, you know. Put on a mess jacket and that sort of thing--easy dress. That is what _I_ should do, certainly, if I wasn't in harness--and poor." He coughed modestly and patted his hair behind. And after that the washing bill of Kipps quadrupled, and he was to be seen at times by the bandstand with his light summer overcoat unbuttoned to give a glimpse of his nice white tie. He and Coote would be smoking the gold-tipped cigarettes young Walshingham had prescribed as _chic_, and appreciating the music highly. "That's--puff--a very nice bit," Kipps would say, or better, "That's nace." And at the first grunts of the loyal anthem up they stood with religiously uplifted hats. Whatever else you might call them, you could never call them disloyal. The boundary of Society was admittedly very close to Coote and Kipps, and a leading solicitude of the true gentleman was to detect clearly those "beneath" him, and to behave towards them in a proper spirit. "It's jest there it's so 'ard for me," said Kipps. He had to cultivate a certain "distance," to acquire altogether the art of checking the presumption of bounders and old friends. It was difficult, Coote admitted. "That's what, so harkward--I mean awkward." "I got mixed up with this lot 'ere," said Kipps. "You could give them a hint," said Coote. "'Ow?" "Oh!--the occasion will suggest something." The occasion came one early closing night when Kipps was sitting in a canopy chair near the bandstand, with his summer overcoat fully open and a new Gibus pulled slightly forward over his brow, waiting for Coote. They were to hear the band for an hour and then go down to assist Miss Coote and the freckled girl in trying over some of Beethoven's duets, if they remembered them, that is, sufficiently well. And as Kipps lounged back in his chair and occupied his mind with his favourite amusement on such evenings, which consisted chiefly in supposing that everyone about him was wondering who he was, came a rude rap at the canvas back and the voice of Pierce. "It's nice to be a gentleman," said Pierce, and swung a penny chair into position while Buggins appeared smiling agreeably on the other side and leant upon his stick. _He was smoking a common briar pipe!_ Two real ladies, very fashionably dressed and sitting close at hand, glanced quickly at Pierce, and then away again, and it was evident _their_ wonder was at an end. "_He's_ all right," said Buggins, removing his pipe and surveying Kipps. "'Ello, Buggins!" said Kipps, not too cordially. "'Ow goes it?" "All right. Holiday's next week. If you don't look out, Kipps, I shall be on the Continong before you. Eh?" "You going t' Boologne?" "Ra-ther. Parley vous Francey. You bet." "_I_ shall 'ave a bit of a run over there one of these days," said Kipps. There came a pause. Pierce applied the top of his stick to his mouth for a space and regarded Kipps. Then he glanced at the people about them. "I say, Kipps," he said in a distinct, loud voice, "see 'er Ladyship lately?" Kipps perceived the audience was to be impressed, but he responded half-heartedly, "No, I 'aven't," he said. "She was along of Sir William the other night," said Pierce, still loud and clear, "and she asked to be remembered to you." It seemed to Kipps that one of the two ladies smiled faintly and said something to the other, and then certainly they glanced at Pierce. Kipps flushed scarlet. "_Did_ she?" he answered. Buggins laughed good-humouredly over his pipe. "Sir William suffers a lot from his gout," Pierce continued unabashed. (Buggins much amused with his pipe between his teeth.) Kipps became aware of Coote at hand. Coote nodded rather distantly to Pierce. "Hope I haven't kept you waiting, Kipps," he said. "I kep' a chair for you," said Kipps and removed a guardian foot. "But you've got your friends," said Coote. "Oh! _we_ don't mind," said Pierce cordially, "the more the merrier," and, "why don't you get a chair, Buggins?" Buggins shook his head in a sort of aside to Pierce and Coote coughed behind his hand. "Been kep' late at business?" asked Pierce. Coote turned quite pale and pretended not to hear. His eyes sought in space for a time and with a convulsive movement he recognised a distant acquaintance and raised his hat. Pierce had also become a little pale. He addressed himself to Kipps in an undertone. "Mr. Coote, isn't he?" he asked. Coote addressed himself to Kipps directly and exclusively. His manner had the calm of extreme tension. "I'm rather late," he said. "I think we ought almost to be going on _now_." Kipps stood up. "That's all right," he said. "Which way are you going?" said Pierce, standing also, and brushing some crumbs of cigarette ash from his sleeve. For a moment Coote was breathless. "Thank you," he said, and gasped. Then he delivered the necessary blow; "I don't think we're in need of your society, you know," and turned away. Kipps found himself falling over chairs and things in the wake of Coote, and then they were clear of the crowd. For a space Coote said nothing; then he remarked abruptly and quite angrily for him, "I think that was _awful_ Cheek!" Kipps made no reply.... The whole thing was an interesting little object lesson in distance, and it stuck in the front of Kipps' mind for a long time. He had particularly vivid the face of Pierce, with an expression between astonishment and anger. He felt as though he had struck Pierce in the face under circumstances that gave Pierce no power to reply. He did not attend very much to the duets and even forgot at the end of one of them to say how perfectly lovely it was. 4 But you must not imagine that the national ideal of a gentleman, as Coote developed it, was all a matter of deportment and selectness, a mere isolation from debasing associations. There is a Serious Side, a deeper aspect of the true, True Gentleman. The True Gentleman does not wear his heart on his sleeve. He is a polished surface above deeps. For example, he is deeply religious, as Coote was, as Mrs. Walshingham was, but outside the walls of a church it never appears, except perhaps now and then in a pause, in a profound look, in a sudden avoidance. In quite a little while Kipps also had learnt the pause, the profound look, the sudden avoidance, that final refinement of spirituality, impressionistic piety. And the True Gentleman is patriotic also. When one saw Coote lifting his hat to the National Anthem, then perhaps one got a glimpse of what patriotic emotions, what worship, the polish of a gentleman may hide. Or singing out his deep notes against the Hosts of Midian, in the St. Stylites choir; then indeed you plumbed his spiritual side. Christian, dost thou heed them, On the holy ground, How the hosts of Mid-i-an, Prowl and prowl around! Christian, up and smai-it them.... But these were but gleams. For the rest, Religion, Nationality, Passion, Money, Politics; much more so those cardinal issues, Birth and Death, the True Gentleman skirted about, and became facially rigid towards and ceased to speak and panted and blew. "One doesn't talk of that sort of thing," Coote would say with a gesture of the knuckly hand. "O' course," Kipps would reply, with an equal significance. Profundities. Deep as it were, blowing to deep. One does not talk, but on the other hand one is punctilious to do. Actions speak. Kipps--in spite of the fact that the Walshinghams were more than a little lax--Kipps, who had formerly flitted Sunday after Sunday from one Folkestone church to another, had now a sitting of his own, paid for duly at Saint Stylites. There he was to be seen, always at the surplice evening service, and sometimes of a morning, dressed with a sober precision, and with an eye on Coote in the chancel. No difficulties now about finding the place in his book. He became a communicant again--he had lapsed soon after his confirmation when the young lady in the costume-room, who was his adopted sister, left the Emporium--and he would sometimes go around to the Vestry for Coote after the service. One evening he was introduced to the Hon. and Rev. Densemore. He was much too confused to say anything, and the noble cleric had nothing to say, but indisputably they were introduced.... No! you must not imagine our national ideal of a gentleman is without its "serious side," without even its stern and uncompromising side. The imagination no doubt refuses to see Coote displaying extraordinary refinements of courage upon the stricken field, but in the walks of peace there is sometimes sore need of sternness. Charitable as one may be, one must admit there are people who _do_ things, impossible things; people who place themselves "out of it" in countless ways; people, moreover, who are by a sort of predestination out of it from the beginning, and against these Society has invented a terrible protection for its Cootery, the Cut. The cut is no joke for anyone. It is excommunication. You may be cut by an individual, you may be cut by a set or you may be--and this is so tragic that beautiful romances have been written about it--"Cut by the County." One figures Coote discharging this last duty and cutting somebody--Coote, erect and pale, never speaking, going past with eyes of pitiless slate, lower jaw protruding a little, face pursed up and cold and stiff.... It never dawned upon Kipps that he would one day have to face this terrible front, to be to Coote not only as one dead, but as one gone more than a stage or so in decay, cut and passed, banned and outcast for ever. Yet so it was to be! One cannot hide any longer that all this fine progress of Kipps is doomed to end in collapse. So far indeed you have seen him ascend. You have seen him becoming more refined and careful day by day, more carefully dressed, less clumsy in the ways and methods of social life. You have seen the gulf widening between himself and his former low associates. I have brought you at last to the vision of him, faultlessly dressed and posed, in an atmosphere of candlelight and chanting, in his own sitting in one of the most fashionable churches in Folkestone.... All the time I have refrained from the lightest touch upon the tragic note that must now creep into my tale. Yet the net of his low connections has been about his feet, and moreover there was something interwoven in his being.... CHAPTER VI DISCORDS 1 One day Kipps set out upon his newly-mastered bicycle to New Romney to break the news of his engagement to his Uncle and Aunt--this time positively. He was now a finished cyclist, but as yet an unseasoned one; the southwest wind, even in its summer guise, as one meets it in the Marsh, is the equivalent of a reasonable hill, and ever and again he got off and refreshed himself by a spell of walking. He was walking just outside New Romney preparatory to his triumphal entry (one hand off) when abruptly he came upon Ann Pornick. It chanced he was thinking about her at the time. He had been thinking curious things; whether, after all, the atmosphere of New Romney and the Marsh had not some difference, some faint impalpable quality that was missing in the great and fashionable world of Folkestone behind there on the hill. Here there was a homeliness, a familiarity. He had noted as he passed that old Mr. Cliffordown's gate had been mended with a fresh piece of

art

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

was a touch of motherliness in her feelings towards him. But his upbringing and his associations had been, she diagnosed, "awful." At New Romney she glanced but little; that was remote. But in her inventory--she went over him as one might go over a newly taken house, with impartial thoroughness--she discovered more proximate influences, surprising intimations of nocturnal "sing-songs"--she pictured it as almost shocking that Kipps should sing to the banjo--much low-grade wisdom treasured from a person called Buggins--"Who _is_ Buggins?" said Helen--vague figures of indisputable vulgarity, Pierce and Carshot, and more particularly, a very terrible social phenomenon, Chitterlow. Chitterlow blazed upon them with unheralded oppressive brilliance the first time they were abroad together. They were going along the front of the Leas to see a school play in Sandgate--at the last moment Mrs. Walshingham had been unable to come with them--when Chitterlow loomed up into the new world. He was wearing the suit of striped flannel and the straw hat that had followed Kipps' payment in advance for his course in elocution, his hands were deep in his side pockets and animated the corners of his jacket, and his attentive gaze at the passing loungers, the faint smile under his boldly drawn nose, showed him engaged in studying character--no doubt for some forthcoming play. "What HO!" said he, at the sight of Kipps, and swept off the straw hat with so ample a clutch of his great, flat hand that it suggested to Helen's startled mind a conjurer about to palm a half-penny. "'Ello, Chitt'low," said Kipps a little awkwardly and not saluting. Chitterlow hesitated. "Half a mo', my boy," he said, and arrested Kipps by extending a large hand over his chest. "Excuse me, my dear," he said, bowing like his Russian count by way of apology to Helen and with a smile that would have killed at a hundred yards. He affected a semi-confidential grouping of himself and Kipps while Helen stood in white amazement. "About that play," he said. "'Ow about it?" asked Kipps, acutely aware of Helen. "It's all right," said Chitterlow. "There's a strong smell of syndicate in the air, I may tell you--Strong." "That's aw right," said Kipps. "You needn't tell everybody," said Chitterlow with a transitory, confidential hand to his mouth, which pointed the application of the "everybody" just a trifle too strongly. "But I think it's coming off. However----. I mustn't detain you now. So long. You'll come 'round, eh?" "Right you are," said Kipps. "To-night?" "At eight." And then, and more in the manner of a Russian prince than any common count, Chitterlow bowed and withdrew. Just for a moment he allowed a conquering eye to challenge Helen's and noted her for a girl of quality.... There was a silence between our lovers for a space. "That," said Kipps with an allusive movement of the head, "was Chitterlow." "Is he--a friend of yours?" "In a way.... You see--I met 'im. Leastways 'e met me. Run into me with a bicycle, 'e did, and so we got talking together." He tried to appear at his ease. The young lady scrutinised his profile. "What is he?" "'E's a Nacter chap," said Kipps. "Leastways 'e writes plays." "And sells them?" "Partly." "Whom to?" "Different people. Shares he sells.... It's all right, reely--I meant to tell you about him before." Helen looked over her shoulder to catch a view of Chitterlow's retreating aspect. It did not compel her complete confidence. She turned to her lover and said in a tone of quiet authority, "You must tell me all about Chitterlow. Now." The explanation began.... The School Play came almost as a relief to Kipps. In the flusterment of going in he could almost forget for a time his Laocoon struggle to explain, and in the intervals he did his best to keep forgetting. But Helen, with a gentle insistence, resumed the explanation of Chitterlow as they returned towards Folkestone. Chitterlow was confoundedly difficult to explain. You could hardly imagine! There was an almost motherly anxiety in Helen's manner, blended with the resolution of a schoolmistress to get to the bottom of the affair. Kipps' ears were soon quite brightly red. "Have you seen one of his plays?" "'E's tole me about one." "But on the stage." "No. He 'asn't 'ad any on the stage yet. That's all coming...." "Promise me," she said in conclusion, "you won't do anything without consulting me." And of course Kipps promised. "Oo--no!" They went on their way in silence. "One can't know everybody," said Helen in general. "Of course," said Kipps; "in a sort of way it was him that helped me to my money." And he indicated in a confused manner the story of the advertisement. "I don't like to drop 'im all at once," he added. Helen was silent for a space, and when she spoke she went off at a tangent. "We shall live in London--soon," she remarked. "It's only while we are here." It was the first intimation she gave him of their post-nuptial prospects. "We shall have a nice little flat somewhere, not too far west, and there we shall build up a circle of our own." 2 All that declining summer Kipps was the pupil lover. He made an extraordinarily open secret of his desire for self-improvement; indeed Helen had to hint once or twice that his modest frankness was excessive, and all this new circle of friends did, each after his or her manner, everything that was possible to supplement Helen's efforts and help him to ease and skill in the more cultivated circles to which he had come. Coote was still the chief teacher, the tutor--there are so many little difficulties that a man may take to another man that he would not care to propound to the woman he loves--but they were all, so to speak, upon the staff. Even the freckled girl said to him once in a pleasant way, "You mustn't say "contre temps," you must say "contraytom,"" when he borrowed that expression from "Manners and Rules," and she tried at his own suggestion to give him clear ideas upon the subject of "as" and "has." A certain confusion between these words was becoming evident, the first fruits of a lesson from Chitterlow on the aspirate. Hitherto he had discarded that dangerous letter almost altogether, but now he would pull up at words beginning with "h" and draw a sawing breath--rather like a startled kitten--and then aspirate with vigour. Said Kipps one day, "_As_ 'e?--I should say, ah--Has 'e? Ye know I got a lot of difficulty over them two words, which is which?" "Well, 'as' is a conjunction and 'has' is a verb." "I know," said Kipps, "but when is 'has' a conjunction and when is 'as' a verb?" "Well," said the freckled girl, preparing to be very lucid. "It's _has_ when it means one has, meaning having, but if it isn't it's _as_. As for instance one says 'e--I mean _he_--He has. But one says 'as he has.'" "I see," said Kipps. "So I ought to say 'as 'e?'" "No, if you are asking a question you say _has_ 'e--I mean he--'as he?" She blushed quite brightly, but still clung to her air of lucidity. "I see," said Kipps. He was about to say something further, but he desisted. "I got it much clearer now. _Has_ 'e? _Has_ 'e as. Yes." "If you remember about having." "Oo I will," said Kipps. Miss Coote specialised in Kipps' artistic development. She had early found an opinion that he had considerable artistic sensibility, his remarks on her work had struck her as decidedly intelligent, and whenever he called around to see them she would show him some work of art, now an illustrated book, now perhaps a colour print of a Botticelli, now the Hundred Best Paintings, now "Academy Pictures," now a German art handbook and now some magazine of furniture and design. "I know you like these things," she used to say, and Kipps said, "Oo I _do_." He soon acquired a little armoury of appreciative sayings. When presently the Walshinghams took him up to the Arts and Crafts, his deportment was intelligent in the extreme. For a time he kept a wary silence and suddenly pitched upon a colour print. "That's rather nace," he said to Mrs. Walshingham. "That lill' thing. There." He always said things like that by preference to the mother rather than the daughter unless he was perfectly sure. He quite took to Mrs. Walshingham. He was impressed by her conspicuous tact and refinement; it seemed to him that the ladylike could go no further. She was always dressed with a delicate fussiness that was never disarranged and even a sort of faded quality about her hair and face and bearing and emotions contributed to her effect. Kipps was not a big man, and commonly he did not feel a big man, but with Mrs. Walshingham he always felt enormous and distended, as though he was a navvy who had taken some disagreeable poison which puffed him up inside his skin as a preliminary to bursting. He felt, too, as though he had been rolled in clay and his hair dressed with gum. And he felt that his voice was strident and his accent like somebody swinging a crowded pig's pail in a free and careless manner. All this increased and enforced his respect for her. Her hand, which flitted often and again to his hand and arm, was singularly well shaped and cool. "Arthur," she called him from the very beginning. She did not so much positively teach and tell him as tactfully guide and infect him. Her conversation was not so much didactic as exemplary. She would say, "I _do_ like people to do" so and so. She would tell him anecdotes of nice things done, of gentlemanly feats of graceful consideration; she would record her neat observations of people in trains and omnibuses; how, for example, a man had passed her change to the conductor, "quite a common man he looked," but he had lifted his hat. She stamped Kipps so deeply with the hat-raising habit that he would uncover if he found himself in the same railway ticket office with a lady had to stand ceremoniously until the difficulties of change drove him to an apologetic provisional oblique resumption of his headgear.... And robbing these things of any air of personal application, she threw about them an abundant talk about her two children--she called them her Twin Jewels quite frequently--about their gifts, their temperaments, their ambition, their need of opportunity. They needed opportunity, she would say, as other people needed air.... In his conversations with her Kipps always assumed, and she seemed to assume, that she was to join that home in London Helen foreshadowed, but he was surprised one day to gather that this was not to be the case. "It wouldn't do," said Helen, with decision. "We want to make a circle of our own." "But won't she be a bit lonely down here?" asked Kipps. "There's the Waces, and Mrs. Prebble and Mrs. Bindon Botting and--lots of people she knows." And Helen dismissed this possibility.... Young Walshingham's share in the educational syndicate was smaller. But he shone out when they went to London on that Arts and Crafts expedition. Then this rising man of affairs showed Kipps how to buy the more theatrical weeklies for consumption in the train, how to buy and what to buy in the way of cigarettes with gold tips and shilling cigars, and how to order hock for lunch and sparkling Moselle for dinner, how to calculate the fare of a hansom cab--penny a minute while he goes--how to look intelligently at an hotel tape, and how to sit still in a train like a thoughtful man instead of talking like a fool and giving yourself away. And he, too, would glance at the good time coming when they were to be in London for good and all. That prospect expanded and developed particulars. It presently took up a large part of Helen's conversation. Her conversations with Kipps were never of a grossly sentimental sort; there was a shyness of speech in that matter with both of them, but these new adumbrations were at least as interesting and not so directly disagreeable as the clear-cut intimations of personal defect that for a time had so greatly chastened Kipps' delight in her presence. The future presented itself with an almost perfect frankness as a joint campaign of Mrs. Walshingham's Twin Jewels upon the Great World, with Kipps in the capacity of baggage and supply. They would still be dreadfully poor, of course--this amazed Kipps, but he said nothing--until "Brudderkins" began to succeed, but if they were clever and lucky they might do a great deal. When Helen spoke of London a brooding look, as of one who contemplates a distant country, came into her eyes. Already it seemed they had the nucleus of a set. Brudderkins was a member of the Theatrical Judges, an excellent and influential little club of journalists and literary people, and he knew Shimer and Stargate and Whiffle, of the "Red Dragon," and besides these were the Revels. They knew the Revels quite well. Sidney Revel before his rapid rise to prominence as a writer of epigrammatic essays that were quite above the ordinary public, had been an assistant master at one of the best Folkestone schools, Brudderkins had brought him home to tea several times, and it was he had first suggested Helen should try and write. "It's perfectly easy," Sidney had said. He had been writing occasional things for the evening papers, and for the weekly reviews even at that time. Then he had gone up to London and had almost unavoidedly become a dramatic critic. Those brilliant essays had followed, and then "Red Hearts a-Beating," the romance that had made him. It was a tale of spirited adventure, full of youth and beauty and na ve passion and generous devotion, bold, as the _Bookman_ said, and frank in places, but never in the slightest degree morbid. He had met and married an American widow with quite a lot of money, and they had made a very distinct place for themselves, Kipps learnt, in the literary and artistic society of London. Helen seemed to dwell on the Revels a great deal; it was her exemplary story, and when she spoke of Sidney--she often called him Sidney--she would become thoughtful. She spoke most of him naturally because she had still to meet Mrs. Revel.... Certainly they would be in the world in no time, even if the distant connection with the Beaupres family came to nothing. Kipps gathered that with his marriage and the movement to London they were to undergo that subtle change of name Coote had first adumbrated. They were to become "Cuyps," Mr. and Mrs. Cuyps. Or, was it Cuyp? "It'll be rum at first," said Kipps. "I dessay I shall soon get into it."... So in their several ways they all contributed to enlarge and refine and exercise the intelligence of Kipps. And behind all these other influences, and, as it were, presiding over and correcting these influences, was Kipps' nearest friend, Coote, a sort of master of the ceremonies. You figure his face, blowing slightly with solicitude, his slate coloured, projecting but not unkindly eye intent upon our hero. The thing he thought was going off admirably. He studied Kipps' character immensely. He would discuss him with his sister, with Mrs. Walshingham, with the freckled girl, with anyone who would stand it. "He is an interesting character," he would say, "likable--a sort of gentleman by instinct. He takes to all these things. He improves every day. He'll soon get Sang Froid. We took him up just in time. He wants now--well----. Next year, perhaps, if there is a good Extension Literature course, he might go in for it. He wants to go in for something like that." "He's going in for his bicycle now," said Mrs. Walshingham. "That's all right for summer," said Coote, "but he wants to go in for some serious, intellectual interest, something to take him out of himself a little more. Savoir Faire and self-forgetfulness is more than half the secret of Sang Froid." 3 The world as Coote presented it was in part an endorsement, in part an amplification and in part a rectification of the world of Kipps, the world that derived from the old couple in New Romney and had been developed in the Emporium; the world, in fact, of common British life. There was the same subtle sense of social graduation that had moved Mrs. Kipps to prohibit intercourse with labourers' children and the same dread of anything "common" that had kept the personal quality of Mr. Shalford's establishment so high. But now a certain disagreeable doubt about Kipps' own position was removed and he stood with Coote inside the sphere of gentlemen assured. Within the sphere of gentlemen there are distinctions of rank indeed, but none of class; there are the Big People and the modest, refined, gentlemanly little people like Coote, who may even dabble in the professions and counterless trades; there are lords and magnificences, and there are gentle folk who have to manage, but they can all call on one another, they preserve a general equality of deportment throughout, they constitute that great state within the state, Society, or at any rate they make believe they do. "But reely," said the Pupil, "not what you call being in Society?" "Yes," said Coote. "Of course, down here one doesn't see much of it, but there's local society. It has the same rules." "Calling and all that?" "Precisely," said Coote. Kipps thought, whistled a bar, and suddenly broached a question of conscience. "I often wonder," he said, "whether I oughtn't to dress for dinner--when I'm alone 'ere." Coote protruded his lips and reflected. "Not full dress," he adjudicated; "that would be a little excessive. But you should _change_, you know. Put on a mess jacket and that sort of thing--easy dress. That is what _I_ should do, certainly, if I wasn't in harness--and poor." He coughed modestly and patted his hair behind. And after that the washing bill of Kipps quadrupled, and he was to be seen at times by the bandstand with his light summer overcoat unbuttoned to give a glimpse of his nice white tie. He and Coote would be smoking the gold-tipped cigarettes young Walshingham had prescribed as _chic_, and appreciating the music highly. "That's--puff--a very nice bit," Kipps would say, or better, "That's nace." And at the first grunts of the loyal anthem up they stood with religiously uplifted hats. Whatever else you might call them, you could never call them disloyal. The boundary of Society was admittedly very close to Coote and Kipps, and a leading solicitude of the true gentleman was to detect clearly those "beneath" him, and to behave towards them in a proper spirit. "It's jest there it's so 'ard for me," said Kipps. He had to cultivate a certain "distance," to acquire altogether the art of checking the presumption of bounders and old friends. It was difficult, Coote admitted. "That's what, so harkward--I mean awkward." "I got mixed up with this lot 'ere," said Kipps. "You could give them a hint," said Coote. "'Ow?" "Oh!--the occasion will suggest something." The occasion came one early closing night when Kipps was sitting in a canopy chair near the bandstand, with his summer overcoat fully open and a new Gibus pulled slightly forward over his brow, waiting for Coote. They were to hear the band for an hour and then go down to assist Miss Coote and the freckled girl in trying over some of Beethoven's duets, if they remembered them, that is, sufficiently well. And as Kipps lounged back in his chair and occupied his mind with his favourite amusement on such evenings, which consisted chiefly in supposing that everyone about him was wondering who he was, came a rude rap at the canvas back and the voice of Pierce. "It's nice to be a gentleman," said Pierce, and swung a penny chair into position while Buggins appeared smiling agreeably on the other side and leant upon his stick. _He was smoking a common briar pipe!_ Two real ladies, very fashionably dressed and sitting close at hand, glanced quickly at Pierce, and then away again, and it was evident _their_ wonder was at an end. "_He's_ all right," said Buggins, removing his pipe and surveying Kipps. "'Ello, Buggins!" said Kipps, not too cordially. "'Ow goes it?" "All right. Holiday's next week. If you don't look out, Kipps, I shall be on the Continong before you. Eh?" "You going t' Boologne?" "Ra-ther. Parley vous Francey. You bet." "_I_ shall 'ave a bit of a run over there one of these days," said Kipps. There came a pause. Pierce applied the top of his stick to his mouth for a space and regarded Kipps. Then he glanced at the people about them. "I say, Kipps," he said in a distinct, loud voice, "see 'er Ladyship lately?" Kipps perceived the audience was to be impressed, but he responded half-heartedly, "No, I 'aven't," he said. "She was along of Sir William the other night," said Pierce, still loud and clear, "and she asked to be remembered to you." It seemed to Kipps that one of the two ladies smiled faintly and said something to the other, and then certainly they glanced at Pierce. Kipps flushed scarlet. "_Did_ she?" he answered. Buggins laughed good-humouredly over his pipe. "Sir William suffers a lot from his gout," Pierce continued unabashed. (Buggins much amused with his pipe between his teeth.) Kipps became aware of Coote at hand. Coote nodded rather distantly to Pierce. "Hope I haven't kept you waiting, Kipps," he said. "I kep' a chair for you," said Kipps and removed a guardian foot. "But you've got your friends," said Coote. "Oh! _we_ don't mind," said Pierce cordially, "the more the merrier," and, "why don't you get a chair, Buggins?" Buggins shook his head in a sort of aside to Pierce and Coote coughed behind his hand. "Been kep' late at business?" asked Pierce. Coote turned quite pale and pretended not to hear. His eyes sought in space for a time and with a convulsive movement he recognised a distant acquaintance and raised his hat. Pierce had also become a little pale. He addressed himself to Kipps in an undertone. "Mr. Coote, isn't he?" he asked. Coote addressed himself to Kipps directly and exclusively. His manner had the calm of extreme tension. "I'm rather late," he said. "I think we ought almost to be going on _now_." Kipps stood up. "That's all right," he said. "Which way are you going?" said Pierce, standing also, and brushing some crumbs of cigarette ash from his sleeve. For a moment Coote was breathless. "Thank you," he said, and gasped. Then he delivered the necessary blow; "I don't think we're in need of your society, you know," and turned away. Kipps found himself falling over chairs and things in the wake of Coote, and then they were clear of the crowd. For a space Coote said nothing; then he remarked abruptly and quite angrily for him, "I think that was _awful_ Cheek!" Kipps made no reply.... The whole thing was an interesting little object lesson in distance, and it stuck in the front of Kipps' mind for a long time. He had particularly vivid the face of Pierce, with an expression between astonishment and anger. He felt as though he had struck Pierce in the face under circumstances that gave Pierce no power to reply. He did not attend very much to the duets and even forgot at the end of one of them to say how perfectly lovely it was. 4 But you must not imagine that the national ideal of a gentleman, as Coote developed it, was all a matter of deportment and selectness, a mere isolation from debasing associations. There is a Serious Side, a deeper aspect of the true, True Gentleman. The True Gentleman does not wear his heart on his sleeve. He is a polished surface above deeps. For example, he is deeply religious, as Coote was, as Mrs. Walshingham was, but outside the walls of a church it never appears, except perhaps now and then in a pause, in a profound look, in a sudden avoidance. In quite a little while Kipps also had learnt the pause, the profound look, the sudden avoidance, that final refinement of spirituality, impressionistic piety. And the True Gentleman is patriotic also. When one saw Coote lifting his hat to the National Anthem, then perhaps one got a glimpse of what patriotic emotions, what worship, the polish of a gentleman may hide. Or singing out his deep notes against the Hosts of Midian, in the St. Stylites choir; then indeed you plumbed his spiritual side. Christian, dost thou heed them, On the holy ground, How the hosts of Mid-i-an, Prowl and prowl around! Christian, up and smai-it them.... But these were but gleams. For the rest, Religion, Nationality, Passion, Money, Politics; much more so those cardinal issues, Birth and Death, the True Gentleman skirted about, and became facially rigid towards and ceased to speak and panted and blew. "One doesn't talk of that sort of thing," Coote would say with a gesture of the knuckly hand. "O' course," Kipps would reply, with an equal significance. Profundities. Deep as it were, blowing to deep. One does not talk, but on the other hand one is punctilious to do. Actions speak. Kipps--in spite of the fact that the Walshinghams were more than a little lax--Kipps, who had formerly flitted Sunday after Sunday from one Folkestone church to another, had now a sitting of his own, paid for duly at Saint Stylites. There he was to be seen, always at the surplice evening service, and sometimes of a morning, dressed with a sober precision, and with an eye on Coote in the chancel. No difficulties now about finding the place in his book. He became a communicant again--he had lapsed soon after his confirmation when the young lady in the costume-room, who was his adopted sister, left the Emporium--and he would sometimes go around to the Vestry for Coote after the service. One evening he was introduced to the Hon. and Rev. Densemore. He was much too confused to say anything, and the noble cleric had nothing to say, but indisputably they were introduced.... No! you must not imagine our national ideal of a gentleman is without its "serious side," without even its stern and uncompromising side. The imagination no doubt refuses to see Coote displaying extraordinary refinements of courage upon the stricken field, but in the walks of peace there is sometimes sore need of sternness. Charitable as one may be, one must admit there are people who _do_ things, impossible things; people who place themselves "out of it" in countless ways; people, moreover, who are by a sort of predestination out of it from the beginning, and against these Society has invented a terrible protection for its Cootery, the Cut. The cut is no joke for anyone. It is excommunication. You may be cut by an individual, you may be cut by a set or you may be--and this is so tragic that beautiful romances have been written about it--"Cut by the County." One figures Coote discharging this last duty and cutting somebody--Coote, erect and pale, never speaking, going past with eyes of pitiless slate, lower jaw protruding a little, face pursed up and cold and stiff.... It never dawned upon Kipps that he would one day have to face this terrible front, to be to Coote not only as one dead, but as one gone more than a stage or so in decay, cut and passed, banned and outcast for ever. Yet so it was to be! One cannot hide any longer that all this fine progress of Kipps is doomed to end in collapse. So far indeed you have seen him ascend. You have seen him becoming more refined and careful day by day, more carefully dressed, less clumsy in the ways and methods of social life. You have seen the gulf widening between himself and his former low associates. I have brought you at last to the vision of him, faultlessly dressed and posed, in an atmosphere of candlelight and chanting, in his own sitting in one of the most fashionable churches in Folkestone.... All the time I have refrained from the lightest touch upon the tragic note that must now creep into my tale. Yet the net of his low connections has been about his feet, and moreover there was something interwoven in his being.... CHAPTER VI DISCORDS 1 One day Kipps set out upon his newly-mastered bicycle to New Romney to break the news of his engagement to his Uncle and Aunt--this time positively. He was now a finished cyclist, but as yet an unseasoned one; the southwest wind, even in its summer guise, as one meets it in the Marsh, is the equivalent of a reasonable hill, and ever and again he got off and refreshed himself by a spell of walking. He was walking just outside New Romney preparatory to his triumphal entry (one hand off) when abruptly he came upon Ann Pornick. It chanced he was thinking about her at the time. He had been thinking curious things; whether, after all, the atmosphere of New Romney and the Marsh had not some difference, some faint impalpable quality that was missing in the great and fashionable world of Folkestone behind there on the hill. Here there was a homeliness, a familiarity. He had noted as he passed that old Mr. Cliffordown's gate had been mended with a fresh piece of

marshalsea

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

was a touch of motherliness in her feelings towards him. But his upbringing and his associations had been, she diagnosed, "awful." At New Romney she glanced but little; that was remote. But in her inventory--she went over him as one might go over a newly taken house, with impartial thoroughness--she discovered more proximate influences, surprising intimations of nocturnal "sing-songs"--she pictured it as almost shocking that Kipps should sing to the banjo--much low-grade wisdom treasured from a person called Buggins--"Who _is_ Buggins?" said Helen--vague figures of indisputable vulgarity, Pierce and Carshot, and more particularly, a very terrible social phenomenon, Chitterlow. Chitterlow blazed upon them with unheralded oppressive brilliance the first time they were abroad together. They were going along the front of the Leas to see a school play in Sandgate--at the last moment Mrs. Walshingham had been unable to come with them--when Chitterlow loomed up into the new world. He was wearing the suit of striped flannel and the straw hat that had followed Kipps' payment in advance for his course in elocution, his hands were deep in his side pockets and animated the corners of his jacket, and his attentive gaze at the passing loungers, the faint smile under his boldly drawn nose, showed him engaged in studying character--no doubt for some forthcoming play. "What HO!" said he, at the sight of Kipps, and swept off the straw hat with so ample a clutch of his great, flat hand that it suggested to Helen's startled mind a conjurer about to palm a half-penny. "'Ello, Chitt'low," said Kipps a little awkwardly and not saluting. Chitterlow hesitated. "Half a mo', my boy," he said, and arrested Kipps by extending a large hand over his chest. "Excuse me, my dear," he said, bowing like his Russian count by way of apology to Helen and with a smile that would have killed at a hundred yards. He affected a semi-confidential grouping of himself and Kipps while Helen stood in white amazement. "About that play," he said. "'Ow about it?" asked Kipps, acutely aware of Helen. "It's all right," said Chitterlow. "There's a strong smell of syndicate in the air, I may tell you--Strong." "That's aw right," said Kipps. "You needn't tell everybody," said Chitterlow with a transitory, confidential hand to his mouth, which pointed the application of the "everybody" just a trifle too strongly. "But I think it's coming off. However----. I mustn't detain you now. So long. You'll come 'round, eh?" "Right you are," said Kipps. "To-night?" "At eight." And then, and more in the manner of a Russian prince than any common count, Chitterlow bowed and withdrew. Just for a moment he allowed a conquering eye to challenge Helen's and noted her for a girl of quality.... There was a silence between our lovers for a space. "That," said Kipps with an allusive movement of the head, "was Chitterlow." "Is he--a friend of yours?" "In a way.... You see--I met 'im. Leastways 'e met me. Run into me with a bicycle, 'e did, and so we got talking together." He tried to appear at his ease. The young lady scrutinised his profile. "What is he?" "'E's a Nacter chap," said Kipps. "Leastways 'e writes plays." "And sells them?" "Partly." "Whom to?" "Different people. Shares he sells.... It's all right, reely--I meant to tell you about him before." Helen looked over her shoulder to catch a view of Chitterlow's retreating aspect. It did not compel her complete confidence. She turned to her lover and said in a tone of quiet authority, "You must tell me all about Chitterlow. Now." The explanation began.... The School Play came almost as a relief to Kipps. In the flusterment of going in he could almost forget for a time his Laocoon struggle to explain, and in the intervals he did his best to keep forgetting. But Helen, with a gentle insistence, resumed the explanation of Chitterlow as they returned towards Folkestone. Chitterlow was confoundedly difficult to explain. You could hardly imagine! There was an almost motherly anxiety in Helen's manner, blended with the resolution of a schoolmistress to get to the bottom of the affair. Kipps' ears were soon quite brightly red. "Have you seen one of his plays?" "'E's tole me about one." "But on the stage." "No. He 'asn't 'ad any on the stage yet. That's all coming...." "Promise me," she said in conclusion, "you won't do anything without consulting me." And of course Kipps promised. "Oo--no!" They went on their way in silence. "One can't know everybody," said Helen in general. "Of course," said Kipps; "in a sort of way it was him that helped me to my money." And he indicated in a confused manner the story of the advertisement. "I don't like to drop 'im all at once," he added. Helen was silent for a space, and when she spoke she went off at a tangent. "We shall live in London--soon," she remarked. "It's only while we are here." It was the first intimation she gave him of their post-nuptial prospects. "We shall have a nice little flat somewhere, not too far west, and there we shall build up a circle of our own." 2 All that declining summer Kipps was the pupil lover. He made an extraordinarily open secret of his desire for self-improvement; indeed Helen had to hint once or twice that his modest frankness was excessive, and all this new circle of friends did, each after his or her manner, everything that was possible to supplement Helen's efforts and help him to ease and skill in the more cultivated circles to which he had come. Coote was still the chief teacher, the tutor--there are so many little difficulties that a man may take to another man that he would not care to propound to the woman he loves--but they were all, so to speak, upon the staff. Even the freckled girl said to him once in a pleasant way, "You mustn't say "contre temps," you must say "contraytom,"" when he borrowed that expression from "Manners and Rules," and she tried at his own suggestion to give him clear ideas upon the subject of "as" and "has." A certain confusion between these words was becoming evident, the first fruits of a lesson from Chitterlow on the aspirate. Hitherto he had discarded that dangerous letter almost altogether, but now he would pull up at words beginning with "h" and draw a sawing breath--rather like a startled kitten--and then aspirate with vigour. Said Kipps one day, "_As_ 'e?--I should say, ah--Has 'e? Ye know I got a lot of difficulty over them two words, which is which?" "Well, 'as' is a conjunction and 'has' is a verb." "I know," said Kipps, "but when is 'has' a conjunction and when is 'as' a verb?" "Well," said the freckled girl, preparing to be very lucid. "It's _has_ when it means one has, meaning having, but if it isn't it's _as_. As for instance one says 'e--I mean _he_--He has. But one says 'as he has.'" "I see," said Kipps. "So I ought to say 'as 'e?'" "No, if you are asking a question you say _has_ 'e--I mean he--'as he?" She blushed quite brightly, but still clung to her air of lucidity. "I see," said Kipps. He was about to say something further, but he desisted. "I got it much clearer now. _Has_ 'e? _Has_ 'e as. Yes." "If you remember about having." "Oo I will," said Kipps. Miss Coote specialised in Kipps' artistic development. She had early found an opinion that he had considerable artistic sensibility, his remarks on her work had struck her as decidedly intelligent, and whenever he called around to see them she would show him some work of art, now an illustrated book, now perhaps a colour print of a Botticelli, now the Hundred Best Paintings, now "Academy Pictures," now a German art handbook and now some magazine of furniture and design. "I know you like these things," she used to say, and Kipps said, "Oo I _do_." He soon acquired a little armoury of appreciative sayings. When presently the Walshinghams took him up to the Arts and Crafts, his deportment was intelligent in the extreme. For a time he kept a wary silence and suddenly pitched upon a colour print. "That's rather nace," he said to Mrs. Walshingham. "That lill' thing. There." He always said things like that by preference to the mother rather than the daughter unless he was perfectly sure. He quite took to Mrs. Walshingham. He was impressed by her conspicuous tact and refinement; it seemed to him that the ladylike could go no further. She was always dressed with a delicate fussiness that was never disarranged and even a sort of faded quality about her hair and face and bearing and emotions contributed to her effect. Kipps was not a big man, and commonly he did not feel a big man, but with Mrs. Walshingham he always felt enormous and distended, as though he was a navvy who had taken some disagreeable poison which puffed him up inside his skin as a preliminary to bursting. He felt, too, as though he had been rolled in clay and his hair dressed with gum. And he felt that his voice was strident and his accent like somebody swinging a crowded pig's pail in a free and careless manner. All this increased and enforced his respect for her. Her hand, which flitted often and again to his hand and arm, was singularly well shaped and cool. "Arthur," she called him from the very beginning. She did not so much positively teach and tell him as tactfully guide and infect him. Her conversation was not so much didactic as exemplary. She would say, "I _do_ like people to do" so and so. She would tell him anecdotes of nice things done, of gentlemanly feats of graceful consideration; she would record her neat observations of people in trains and omnibuses; how, for example, a man had passed her change to the conductor, "quite a common man he looked," but he had lifted his hat. She stamped Kipps so deeply with the hat-raising habit that he would uncover if he found himself in the same railway ticket office with a lady had to stand ceremoniously until the difficulties of change drove him to an apologetic provisional oblique resumption of his headgear.... And robbing these things of any air of personal application, she threw about them an abundant talk about her two children--she called them her Twin Jewels quite frequently--about their gifts, their temperaments, their ambition, their need of opportunity. They needed opportunity, she would say, as other people needed air.... In his conversations with her Kipps always assumed, and she seemed to assume, that she was to join that home in London Helen foreshadowed, but he was surprised one day to gather that this was not to be the case. "It wouldn't do," said Helen, with decision. "We want to make a circle of our own." "But won't she be a bit lonely down here?" asked Kipps. "There's the Waces, and Mrs. Prebble and Mrs. Bindon Botting and--lots of people she knows." And Helen dismissed this possibility.... Young Walshingham's share in the educational syndicate was smaller. But he shone out when they went to London on that Arts and Crafts expedition. Then this rising man of affairs showed Kipps how to buy the more theatrical weeklies for consumption in the train, how to buy and what to buy in the way of cigarettes with gold tips and shilling cigars, and how to order hock for lunch and sparkling Moselle for dinner, how to calculate the fare of a hansom cab--penny a minute while he goes--how to look intelligently at an hotel tape, and how to sit still in a train like a thoughtful man instead of talking like a fool and giving yourself away. And he, too, would glance at the good time coming when they were to be in London for good and all. That prospect expanded and developed particulars. It presently took up a large part of Helen's conversation. Her conversations with Kipps were never of a grossly sentimental sort; there was a shyness of speech in that matter with both of them, but these new adumbrations were at least as interesting and not so directly disagreeable as the clear-cut intimations of personal defect that for a time had so greatly chastened Kipps' delight in her presence. The future presented itself with an almost perfect frankness as a joint campaign of Mrs. Walshingham's Twin Jewels upon the Great World, with Kipps in the capacity of baggage and supply. They would still be dreadfully poor, of course--this amazed Kipps, but he said nothing--until "Brudderkins" began to succeed, but if they were clever and lucky they might do a great deal. When Helen spoke of London a brooding look, as of one who contemplates a distant country, came into her eyes. Already it seemed they had the nucleus of a set. Brudderkins was a member of the Theatrical Judges, an excellent and influential little club of journalists and literary people, and he knew Shimer and Stargate and Whiffle, of the "Red Dragon," and besides these were the Revels. They knew the Revels quite well. Sidney Revel before his rapid rise to prominence as a writer of epigrammatic essays that were quite above the ordinary public, had been an assistant master at one of the best Folkestone schools, Brudderkins had brought him home to tea several times, and it was he had first suggested Helen should try and write. "It's perfectly easy," Sidney had said. He had been writing occasional things for the evening papers, and for the weekly reviews even at that time. Then he had gone up to London and had almost unavoidedly become a dramatic critic. Those brilliant essays had followed, and then "Red Hearts a-Beating," the romance that had made him. It was a tale of spirited adventure, full of youth and beauty and na ve passion and generous devotion, bold, as the _Bookman_ said, and frank in places, but never in the slightest degree morbid. He had met and married an American widow with quite a lot of money, and they had made a very distinct place for themselves, Kipps learnt, in the literary and artistic society of London. Helen seemed to dwell on the Revels a great deal; it was her exemplary story, and when she spoke of Sidney--she often called him Sidney--she would become thoughtful. She spoke most of him naturally because she had still to meet Mrs. Revel.... Certainly they would be in the world in no time, even if the distant connection with the Beaupres family came to nothing. Kipps gathered that with his marriage and the movement to London they were to undergo that subtle change of name Coote had first adumbrated. They were to become "Cuyps," Mr. and Mrs. Cuyps. Or, was it Cuyp? "It'll be rum at first," said Kipps. "I dessay I shall soon get into it."... So in their several ways they all contributed to enlarge and refine and exercise the intelligence of Kipps. And behind all these other influences, and, as it were, presiding over and correcting these influences, was Kipps' nearest friend, Coote, a sort of master of the ceremonies. You figure his face, blowing slightly with solicitude, his slate coloured, projecting but not unkindly eye intent upon our hero. The thing he thought was going off admirably. He studied Kipps' character immensely. He would discuss him with his sister, with Mrs. Walshingham, with the freckled girl, with anyone who would stand it. "He is an interesting character," he would say, "likable--a sort of gentleman by instinct. He takes to all these things. He improves every day. He'll soon get Sang Froid. We took him up just in time. He wants now--well----. Next year, perhaps, if there is a good Extension Literature course, he might go in for it. He wants to go in for something like that." "He's going in for his bicycle now," said Mrs. Walshingham. "That's all right for summer," said Coote, "but he wants to go in for some serious, intellectual interest, something to take him out of himself a little more. Savoir Faire and self-forgetfulness is more than half the secret of Sang Froid." 3 The world as Coote presented it was in part an endorsement, in part an amplification and in part a rectification of the world of Kipps, the world that derived from the old couple in New Romney and had been developed in the Emporium; the world, in fact, of common British life. There was the same subtle sense of social graduation that had moved Mrs. Kipps to prohibit intercourse with labourers' children and the same dread of anything "common" that had kept the personal quality of Mr. Shalford's establishment so high. But now a certain disagreeable doubt about Kipps' own position was removed and he stood with Coote inside the sphere of gentlemen assured. Within the sphere of gentlemen there are distinctions of rank indeed, but none of class; there are the Big People and the modest, refined, gentlemanly little people like Coote, who may even dabble in the professions and counterless trades; there are lords and magnificences, and there are gentle folk who have to manage, but they can all call on one another, they preserve a general equality of deportment throughout, they constitute that great state within the state, Society, or at any rate they make believe they do. "But reely," said the Pupil, "not what you call being in Society?" "Yes," said Coote. "Of course, down here one doesn't see much of it, but there's local society. It has the same rules." "Calling and all that?" "Precisely," said Coote. Kipps thought, whistled a bar, and suddenly broached a question of conscience. "I often wonder," he said, "whether I oughtn't to dress for dinner--when I'm alone 'ere." Coote protruded his lips and reflected. "Not full dress," he adjudicated; "that would be a little excessive. But you should _change_, you know. Put on a mess jacket and that sort of thing--easy dress. That is what _I_ should do, certainly, if I wasn't in harness--and poor." He coughed modestly and patted his hair behind. And after that the washing bill of Kipps quadrupled, and he was to be seen at times by the bandstand with his light summer overcoat unbuttoned to give a glimpse of his nice white tie. He and Coote would be smoking the gold-tipped cigarettes young Walshingham had prescribed as _chic_, and appreciating the music highly. "That's--puff--a very nice bit," Kipps would say, or better, "That's nace." And at the first grunts of the loyal anthem up they stood with religiously uplifted hats. Whatever else you might call them, you could never call them disloyal. The boundary of Society was admittedly very close to Coote and Kipps, and a leading solicitude of the true gentleman was to detect clearly those "beneath" him, and to behave towards them in a proper spirit. "It's jest there it's so 'ard for me," said Kipps. He had to cultivate a certain "distance," to acquire altogether the art of checking the presumption of bounders and old friends. It was difficult, Coote admitted. "That's what, so harkward--I mean awkward." "I got mixed up with this lot 'ere," said Kipps. "You could give them a hint," said Coote. "'Ow?" "Oh!--the occasion will suggest something." The occasion came one early closing night when Kipps was sitting in a canopy chair near the bandstand, with his summer overcoat fully open and a new Gibus pulled slightly forward over his brow, waiting for Coote. They were to hear the band for an hour and then go down to assist Miss Coote and the freckled girl in trying over some of Beethoven's duets, if they remembered them, that is, sufficiently well. And as Kipps lounged back in his chair and occupied his mind with his favourite amusement on such evenings, which consisted chiefly in supposing that everyone about him was wondering who he was, came a rude rap at the canvas back and the voice of Pierce. "It's nice to be a gentleman," said Pierce, and swung a penny chair into position while Buggins appeared smiling agreeably on the other side and leant upon his stick. _He was smoking a common briar pipe!_ Two real ladies, very fashionably dressed and sitting close at hand, glanced quickly at Pierce, and then away again, and it was evident _their_ wonder was at an end. "_He's_ all right," said Buggins, removing his pipe and surveying Kipps. "'Ello, Buggins!" said Kipps, not too cordially. "'Ow goes it?" "All right. Holiday's next week. If you don't look out, Kipps, I shall be on the Continong before you. Eh?" "You going t' Boologne?" "Ra-ther. Parley vous Francey. You bet." "_I_ shall 'ave a bit of a run over there one of these days," said Kipps. There came a pause. Pierce applied the top of his stick to his mouth for a space and regarded Kipps. Then he glanced at the people about them. "I say, Kipps," he said in a distinct, loud voice, "see 'er Ladyship lately?" Kipps perceived the audience was to be impressed, but he responded half-heartedly, "No, I 'aven't," he said. "She was along of Sir William the other night," said Pierce, still loud and clear, "and she asked to be remembered to you." It seemed to Kipps that one of the two ladies smiled faintly and said something to the other, and then certainly they glanced at Pierce. Kipps flushed scarlet. "_Did_ she?" he answered. Buggins laughed good-humouredly over his pipe. "Sir William suffers a lot from his gout," Pierce continued unabashed. (Buggins much amused with his pipe between his teeth.) Kipps became aware of Coote at hand. Coote nodded rather distantly to Pierce. "Hope I haven't kept you waiting, Kipps," he said. "I kep' a chair for you," said Kipps and removed a guardian foot. "But you've got your friends," said Coote. "Oh! _we_ don't mind," said Pierce cordially, "the more the merrier," and, "why don't you get a chair, Buggins?" Buggins shook his head in a sort of aside to Pierce and Coote coughed behind his hand. "Been kep' late at business?" asked Pierce. Coote turned quite pale and pretended not to hear. His eyes sought in space for a time and with a convulsive movement he recognised a distant acquaintance and raised his hat. Pierce had also become a little pale. He addressed himself to Kipps in an undertone. "Mr. Coote, isn't he?" he asked. Coote addressed himself to Kipps directly and exclusively. His manner had the calm of extreme tension. "I'm rather late," he said. "I think we ought almost to be going on _now_." Kipps stood up. "That's all right," he said. "Which way are you going?" said Pierce, standing also, and brushing some crumbs of cigarette ash from his sleeve. For a moment Coote was breathless. "Thank you," he said, and gasped. Then he delivered the necessary blow; "I don't think we're in need of your society, you know," and turned away. Kipps found himself falling over chairs and things in the wake of Coote, and then they were clear of the crowd. For a space Coote said nothing; then he remarked abruptly and quite angrily for him, "I think that was _awful_ Cheek!" Kipps made no reply.... The whole thing was an interesting little object lesson in distance, and it stuck in the front of Kipps' mind for a long time. He had particularly vivid the face of Pierce, with an expression between astonishment and anger. He felt as though he had struck Pierce in the face under circumstances that gave Pierce no power to reply. He did not attend very much to the duets and even forgot at the end of one of them to say how perfectly lovely it was. 4 But you must not imagine that the national ideal of a gentleman, as Coote developed it, was all a matter of deportment and selectness, a mere isolation from debasing associations. There is a Serious Side, a deeper aspect of the true, True Gentleman. The True Gentleman does not wear his heart on his sleeve. He is a polished surface above deeps. For example, he is deeply religious, as Coote was, as Mrs. Walshingham was, but outside the walls of a church it never appears, except perhaps now and then in a pause, in a profound look, in a sudden avoidance. In quite a little while Kipps also had learnt the pause, the profound look, the sudden avoidance, that final refinement of spirituality, impressionistic piety. And the True Gentleman is patriotic also. When one saw Coote lifting his hat to the National Anthem, then perhaps one got a glimpse of what patriotic emotions, what worship, the polish of a gentleman may hide. Or singing out his deep notes against the Hosts of Midian, in the St. Stylites choir; then indeed you plumbed his spiritual side. Christian, dost thou heed them, On the holy ground, How the hosts of Mid-i-an, Prowl and prowl around! Christian, up and smai-it them.... But these were but gleams. For the rest, Religion, Nationality, Passion, Money, Politics; much more so those cardinal issues, Birth and Death, the True Gentleman skirted about, and became facially rigid towards and ceased to speak and panted and blew. "One doesn't talk of that sort of thing," Coote would say with a gesture of the knuckly hand. "O' course," Kipps would reply, with an equal significance. Profundities. Deep as it were, blowing to deep. One does not talk, but on the other hand one is punctilious to do. Actions speak. Kipps--in spite of the fact that the Walshinghams were more than a little lax--Kipps, who had formerly flitted Sunday after Sunday from one Folkestone church to another, had now a sitting of his own, paid for duly at Saint Stylites. There he was to be seen, always at the surplice evening service, and sometimes of a morning, dressed with a sober precision, and with an eye on Coote in the chancel. No difficulties now about finding the place in his book. He became a communicant again--he had lapsed soon after his confirmation when the young lady in the costume-room, who was his adopted sister, left the Emporium--and he would sometimes go around to the Vestry for Coote after the service. One evening he was introduced to the Hon. and Rev. Densemore. He was much too confused to say anything, and the noble cleric had nothing to say, but indisputably they were introduced.... No! you must not imagine our national ideal of a gentleman is without its "serious side," without even its stern and uncompromising side. The imagination no doubt refuses to see Coote displaying extraordinary refinements of courage upon the stricken field, but in the walks of peace there is sometimes sore need of sternness. Charitable as one may be, one must admit there are people who _do_ things, impossible things; people who place themselves "out of it" in countless ways; people, moreover, who are by a sort of predestination out of it from the beginning, and against these Society has invented a terrible protection for its Cootery, the Cut. The cut is no joke for anyone. It is excommunication. You may be cut by an individual, you may be cut by a set or you may be--and this is so tragic that beautiful romances have been written about it--"Cut by the County." One figures Coote discharging this last duty and cutting somebody--Coote, erect and pale, never speaking, going past with eyes of pitiless slate, lower jaw protruding a little, face pursed up and cold and stiff.... It never dawned upon Kipps that he would one day have to face this terrible front, to be to Coote not only as one dead, but as one gone more than a stage or so in decay, cut and passed, banned and outcast for ever. Yet so it was to be! One cannot hide any longer that all this fine progress of Kipps is doomed to end in collapse. So far indeed you have seen him ascend. You have seen him becoming more refined and careful day by day, more carefully dressed, less clumsy in the ways and methods of social life. You have seen the gulf widening between himself and his former low associates. I have brought you at last to the vision of him, faultlessly dressed and posed, in an atmosphere of candlelight and chanting, in his own sitting in one of the most fashionable churches in Folkestone.... All the time I have refrained from the lightest touch upon the tragic note that must now creep into my tale. Yet the net of his low connections has been about his feet, and moreover there was something interwoven in his being.... CHAPTER VI DISCORDS 1 One day Kipps set out upon his newly-mastered bicycle to New Romney to break the news of his engagement to his Uncle and Aunt--this time positively. He was now a finished cyclist, but as yet an unseasoned one; the southwest wind, even in its summer guise, as one meets it in the Marsh, is the equivalent of a reasonable hill, and ever and again he got off and refreshed himself by a spell of walking. He was walking just outside New Romney preparatory to his triumphal entry (one hand off) when abruptly he came upon Ann Pornick. It chanced he was thinking about her at the time. He had been thinking curious things; whether, after all, the atmosphere of New Romney and the Marsh had not some difference, some faint impalpable quality that was missing in the great and fashionable world of Folkestone behind there on the hill. Here there was a homeliness, a familiarity. He had noted as he passed that old Mr. Cliffordown's gate had been mended with a fresh piece of

brudderkins

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

was a touch of motherliness in her feelings towards him. But his upbringing and his associations had been, she diagnosed, "awful." At New Romney she glanced but little; that was remote. But in her inventory--she went over him as one might go over a newly taken house, with impartial thoroughness--she discovered more proximate influences, surprising intimations of nocturnal "sing-songs"--she pictured it as almost shocking that Kipps should sing to the banjo--much low-grade wisdom treasured from a person called Buggins--"Who _is_ Buggins?" said Helen--vague figures of indisputable vulgarity, Pierce and Carshot, and more particularly, a very terrible social phenomenon, Chitterlow. Chitterlow blazed upon them with unheralded oppressive brilliance the first time they were abroad together. They were going along the front of the Leas to see a school play in Sandgate--at the last moment Mrs. Walshingham had been unable to come with them--when Chitterlow loomed up into the new world. He was wearing the suit of striped flannel and the straw hat that had followed Kipps' payment in advance for his course in elocution, his hands were deep in his side pockets and animated the corners of his jacket, and his attentive gaze at the passing loungers, the faint smile under his boldly drawn nose, showed him engaged in studying character--no doubt for some forthcoming play. "What HO!" said he, at the sight of Kipps, and swept off the straw hat with so ample a clutch of his great, flat hand that it suggested to Helen's startled mind a conjurer about to palm a half-penny. "'Ello, Chitt'low," said Kipps a little awkwardly and not saluting. Chitterlow hesitated. "Half a mo', my boy," he said, and arrested Kipps by extending a large hand over his chest. "Excuse me, my dear," he said, bowing like his Russian count by way of apology to Helen and with a smile that would have killed at a hundred yards. He affected a semi-confidential grouping of himself and Kipps while Helen stood in white amazement. "About that play," he said. "'Ow about it?" asked Kipps, acutely aware of Helen. "It's all right," said Chitterlow. "There's a strong smell of syndicate in the air, I may tell you--Strong." "That's aw right," said Kipps. "You needn't tell everybody," said Chitterlow with a transitory, confidential hand to his mouth, which pointed the application of the "everybody" just a trifle too strongly. "But I think it's coming off. However----. I mustn't detain you now. So long. You'll come 'round, eh?" "Right you are," said Kipps. "To-night?" "At eight." And then, and more in the manner of a Russian prince than any common count, Chitterlow bowed and withdrew. Just for a moment he allowed a conquering eye to challenge Helen's and noted her for a girl of quality.... There was a silence between our lovers for a space. "That," said Kipps with an allusive movement of the head, "was Chitterlow." "Is he--a friend of yours?" "In a way.... You see--I met 'im. Leastways 'e met me. Run into me with a bicycle, 'e did, and so we got talking together." He tried to appear at his ease. The young lady scrutinised his profile. "What is he?" "'E's a Nacter chap," said Kipps. "Leastways 'e writes plays." "And sells them?" "Partly." "Whom to?" "Different people. Shares he sells.... It's all right, reely--I meant to tell you about him before." Helen looked over her shoulder to catch a view of Chitterlow's retreating aspect. It did not compel her complete confidence. She turned to her lover and said in a tone of quiet authority, "You must tell me all about Chitterlow. Now." The explanation began.... The School Play came almost as a relief to Kipps. In the flusterment of going in he could almost forget for a time his Laocoon struggle to explain, and in the intervals he did his best to keep forgetting. But Helen, with a gentle insistence, resumed the explanation of Chitterlow as they returned towards Folkestone. Chitterlow was confoundedly difficult to explain. You could hardly imagine! There was an almost motherly anxiety in Helen's manner, blended with the resolution of a schoolmistress to get to the bottom of the affair. Kipps' ears were soon quite brightly red. "Have you seen one of his plays?" "'E's tole me about one." "But on the stage." "No. He 'asn't 'ad any on the stage yet. That's all coming...." "Promise me," she said in conclusion, "you won't do anything without consulting me." And of course Kipps promised. "Oo--no!" They went on their way in silence. "One can't know everybody," said Helen in general. "Of course," said Kipps; "in a sort of way it was him that helped me to my money." And he indicated in a confused manner the story of the advertisement. "I don't like to drop 'im all at once," he added. Helen was silent for a space, and when she spoke she went off at a tangent. "We shall live in London--soon," she remarked. "It's only while we are here." It was the first intimation she gave him of their post-nuptial prospects. "We shall have a nice little flat somewhere, not too far west, and there we shall build up a circle of our own." 2 All that declining summer Kipps was the pupil lover. He made an extraordinarily open secret of his desire for self-improvement; indeed Helen had to hint once or twice that his modest frankness was excessive, and all this new circle of friends did, each after his or her manner, everything that was possible to supplement Helen's efforts and help him to ease and skill in the more cultivated circles to which he had come. Coote was still the chief teacher, the tutor--there are so many little difficulties that a man may take to another man that he would not care to propound to the woman he loves--but they were all, so to speak, upon the staff. Even the freckled girl said to him once in a pleasant way, "You mustn't say "contre temps," you must say "contraytom,"" when he borrowed that expression from "Manners and Rules," and she tried at his own suggestion to give him clear ideas upon the subject of "as" and "has." A certain confusion between these words was becoming evident, the first fruits of a lesson from Chitterlow on the aspirate. Hitherto he had discarded that dangerous letter almost altogether, but now he would pull up at words beginning with "h" and draw a sawing breath--rather like a startled kitten--and then aspirate with vigour. Said Kipps one day, "_As_ 'e?--I should say, ah--Has 'e? Ye know I got a lot of difficulty over them two words, which is which?" "Well, 'as' is a conjunction and 'has' is a verb." "I know," said Kipps, "but when is 'has' a conjunction and when is 'as' a verb?" "Well," said the freckled girl, preparing to be very lucid. "It's _has_ when it means one has, meaning having, but if it isn't it's _as_. As for instance one says 'e--I mean _he_--He has. But one says 'as he has.'" "I see," said Kipps. "So I ought to say 'as 'e?'" "No, if you are asking a question you say _has_ 'e--I mean he--'as he?" She blushed quite brightly, but still clung to her air of lucidity. "I see," said Kipps. He was about to say something further, but he desisted. "I got it much clearer now. _Has_ 'e? _Has_ 'e as. Yes." "If you remember about having." "Oo I will," said Kipps. Miss Coote specialised in Kipps' artistic development. She had early found an opinion that he had considerable artistic sensibility, his remarks on her work had struck her as decidedly intelligent, and whenever he called around to see them she would show him some work of art, now an illustrated book, now perhaps a colour print of a Botticelli, now the Hundred Best Paintings, now "Academy Pictures," now a German art handbook and now some magazine of furniture and design. "I know you like these things," she used to say, and Kipps said, "Oo I _do_." He soon acquired a little armoury of appreciative sayings. When presently the Walshinghams took him up to the Arts and Crafts, his deportment was intelligent in the extreme. For a time he kept a wary silence and suddenly pitched upon a colour print. "That's rather nace," he said to Mrs. Walshingham. "That lill' thing. There." He always said things like that by preference to the mother rather than the daughter unless he was perfectly sure. He quite took to Mrs. Walshingham. He was impressed by her conspicuous tact and refinement; it seemed to him that the ladylike could go no further. She was always dressed with a delicate fussiness that was never disarranged and even a sort of faded quality about her hair and face and bearing and emotions contributed to her effect. Kipps was not a big man, and commonly he did not feel a big man, but with Mrs. Walshingham he always felt enormous and distended, as though he was a navvy who had taken some disagreeable poison which puffed him up inside his skin as a preliminary to bursting. He felt, too, as though he had been rolled in clay and his hair dressed with gum. And he felt that his voice was strident and his accent like somebody swinging a crowded pig's pail in a free and careless manner. All this increased and enforced his respect for her. Her hand, which flitted often and again to his hand and arm, was singularly well shaped and cool. "Arthur," she called him from the very beginning. She did not so much positively teach and tell him as tactfully guide and infect him. Her conversation was not so much didactic as exemplary. She would say, "I _do_ like people to do" so and so. She would tell him anecdotes of nice things done, of gentlemanly feats of graceful consideration; she would record her neat observations of people in trains and omnibuses; how, for example, a man had passed her change to the conductor, "quite a common man he looked," but he had lifted his hat. She stamped Kipps so deeply with the hat-raising habit that he would uncover if he found himself in the same railway ticket office with a lady had to stand ceremoniously until the difficulties of change drove him to an apologetic provisional oblique resumption of his headgear.... And robbing these things of any air of personal application, she threw about them an abundant talk about her two children--she called them her Twin Jewels quite frequently--about their gifts, their temperaments, their ambition, their need of opportunity. They needed opportunity, she would say, as other people needed air.... In his conversations with her Kipps always assumed, and she seemed to assume, that she was to join that home in London Helen foreshadowed, but he was surprised one day to gather that this was not to be the case. "It wouldn't do," said Helen, with decision. "We want to make a circle of our own." "But won't she be a bit lonely down here?" asked Kipps. "There's the Waces, and Mrs. Prebble and Mrs. Bindon Botting and--lots of people she knows." And Helen dismissed this possibility.... Young Walshingham's share in the educational syndicate was smaller. But he shone out when they went to London on that Arts and Crafts expedition. Then this rising man of affairs showed Kipps how to buy the more theatrical weeklies for consumption in the train, how to buy and what to buy in the way of cigarettes with gold tips and shilling cigars, and how to order hock for lunch and sparkling Moselle for dinner, how to calculate the fare of a hansom cab--penny a minute while he goes--how to look intelligently at an hotel tape, and how to sit still in a train like a thoughtful man instead of talking like a fool and giving yourself away. And he, too, would glance at the good time coming when they were to be in London for good and all. That prospect expanded and developed particulars. It presently took up a large part of Helen's conversation. Her conversations with Kipps were never of a grossly sentimental sort; there was a shyness of speech in that matter with both of them, but these new adumbrations were at least as interesting and not so directly disagreeable as the clear-cut intimations of personal defect that for a time had so greatly chastened Kipps' delight in her presence. The future presented itself with an almost perfect frankness as a joint campaign of Mrs. Walshingham's Twin Jewels upon the Great World, with Kipps in the capacity of baggage and supply. They would still be dreadfully poor, of course--this amazed Kipps, but he said nothing--until "Brudderkins" began to succeed, but if they were clever and lucky they might do a great deal. When Helen spoke of London a brooding look, as of one who contemplates a distant country, came into her eyes. Already it seemed they had the nucleus of a set. Brudderkins was a member of the Theatrical Judges, an excellent and influential little club of journalists and literary people, and he knew Shimer and Stargate and Whiffle, of the "Red Dragon," and besides these were the Revels. They knew the Revels quite well. Sidney Revel before his rapid rise to prominence as a writer of epigrammatic essays that were quite above the ordinary public, had been an assistant master at one of the best Folkestone schools, Brudderkins had brought him home to tea several times, and it was he had first suggested Helen should try and write. "It's perfectly easy," Sidney had said. He had been writing occasional things for the evening papers, and for the weekly reviews even at that time. Then he had gone up to London and had almost unavoidedly become a dramatic critic. Those brilliant essays had followed, and then "Red Hearts a-Beating," the romance that had made him. It was a tale of spirited adventure, full of youth and beauty and na ve passion and generous devotion, bold, as the _Bookman_ said, and frank in places, but never in the slightest degree morbid. He had met and married an American widow with quite a lot of money, and they had made a very distinct place for themselves, Kipps learnt, in the literary and artistic society of London. Helen seemed to dwell on the Revels a great deal; it was her exemplary story, and when she spoke of Sidney--she often called him Sidney--she would become thoughtful. She spoke most of him naturally because she had still to meet Mrs. Revel.... Certainly they would be in the world in no time, even if the distant connection with the Beaupres family came to nothing. Kipps gathered that with his marriage and the movement to London they were to undergo that subtle change of name Coote had first adumbrated. They were to become "Cuyps," Mr. and Mrs. Cuyps. Or, was it Cuyp? "It'll be rum at first," said Kipps. "I dessay I shall soon get into it."... So in their several ways they all contributed to enlarge and refine and exercise the intelligence of Kipps. And behind all these other influences, and, as it were, presiding over and correcting these influences, was Kipps' nearest friend, Coote, a sort of master of the ceremonies. You figure his face, blowing slightly with solicitude, his slate coloured, projecting but not unkindly eye intent upon our hero. The thing he thought was going off admirably. He studied Kipps' character immensely. He would discuss him with his sister, with Mrs. Walshingham, with the freckled girl, with anyone who would stand it. "He is an interesting character," he would say, "likable--a sort of gentleman by instinct. He takes to all these things. He improves every day. He'll soon get Sang Froid. We took him up just in time. He wants now--well----. Next year, perhaps, if there is a good Extension Literature course, he might go in for it. He wants to go in for something like that." "He's going in for his bicycle now," said Mrs. Walshingham. "That's all right for summer," said Coote, "but he wants to go in for some serious, intellectual interest, something to take him out of himself a little more. Savoir Faire and self-forgetfulness is more than half the secret of Sang Froid." 3 The world as Coote presented it was in part an endorsement, in part an amplification and in part a rectification of the world of Kipps, the world that derived from the old couple in New Romney and had been developed in the Emporium; the world, in fact, of common British life. There was the same subtle sense of social graduation that had moved Mrs. Kipps to prohibit intercourse with labourers' children and the same dread of anything "common" that had kept the personal quality of Mr. Shalford's establishment so high. But now a certain disagreeable doubt about Kipps' own position was removed and he stood with Coote inside the sphere of gentlemen assured. Within the sphere of gentlemen there are distinctions of rank indeed, but none of class; there are the Big People and the modest, refined, gentlemanly little people like Coote, who may even dabble in the professions and counterless trades; there are lords and magnificences, and there are gentle folk who have to manage, but they can all call on one another, they preserve a general equality of deportment throughout, they constitute that great state within the state, Society, or at any rate they make believe they do. "But reely," said the Pupil, "not what you call being in Society?" "Yes," said Coote. "Of course, down here one doesn't see much of it, but there's local society. It has the same rules." "Calling and all that?" "Precisely," said Coote. Kipps thought, whistled a bar, and suddenly broached a question of conscience. "I often wonder," he said, "whether I oughtn't to dress for dinner--when I'm alone 'ere." Coote protruded his lips and reflected. "Not full dress," he adjudicated; "that would be a little excessive. But you should _change_, you know. Put on a mess jacket and that sort of thing--easy dress. That is what _I_ should do, certainly, if I wasn't in harness--and poor." He coughed modestly and patted his hair behind. And after that the washing bill of Kipps quadrupled, and he was to be seen at times by the bandstand with his light summer overcoat unbuttoned to give a glimpse of his nice white tie. He and Coote would be smoking the gold-tipped cigarettes young Walshingham had prescribed as _chic_, and appreciating the music highly. "That's--puff--a very nice bit," Kipps would say, or better, "That's nace." And at the first grunts of the loyal anthem up they stood with religiously uplifted hats. Whatever else you might call them, you could never call them disloyal. The boundary of Society was admittedly very close to Coote and Kipps, and a leading solicitude of the true gentleman was to detect clearly those "beneath" him, and to behave towards them in a proper spirit. "It's jest there it's so 'ard for me," said Kipps. He had to cultivate a certain "distance," to acquire altogether the art of checking the presumption of bounders and old friends. It was difficult, Coote admitted. "That's what, so harkward--I mean awkward." "I got mixed up with this lot 'ere," said Kipps. "You could give them a hint," said Coote. "'Ow?" "Oh!--the occasion will suggest something." The occasion came one early closing night when Kipps was sitting in a canopy chair near the bandstand, with his summer overcoat fully open and a new Gibus pulled slightly forward over his brow, waiting for Coote. They were to hear the band for an hour and then go down to assist Miss Coote and the freckled girl in trying over some of Beethoven's duets, if they remembered them, that is, sufficiently well. And as Kipps lounged back in his chair and occupied his mind with his favourite amusement on such evenings, which consisted chiefly in supposing that everyone about him was wondering who he was, came a rude rap at the canvas back and the voice of Pierce. "It's nice to be a gentleman," said Pierce, and swung a penny chair into position while Buggins appeared smiling agreeably on the other side and leant upon his stick. _He was smoking a common briar pipe!_ Two real ladies, very fashionably dressed and sitting close at hand, glanced quickly at Pierce, and then away again, and it was evident _their_ wonder was at an end. "_He's_ all right," said Buggins, removing his pipe and surveying Kipps. "'Ello, Buggins!" said Kipps, not too cordially. "'Ow goes it?" "All right. Holiday's next week. If you don't look out, Kipps, I shall be on the Continong before you. Eh?" "You going t' Boologne?" "Ra-ther. Parley vous Francey. You bet." "_I_ shall 'ave a bit of a run over there one of these days," said Kipps. There came a pause. Pierce applied the top of his stick to his mouth for a space and regarded Kipps. Then he glanced at the people about them. "I say, Kipps," he said in a distinct, loud voice, "see 'er Ladyship lately?" Kipps perceived the audience was to be impressed, but he responded half-heartedly, "No, I 'aven't," he said. "She was along of Sir William the other night," said Pierce, still loud and clear, "and she asked to be remembered to you." It seemed to Kipps that one of the two ladies smiled faintly and said something to the other, and then certainly they glanced at Pierce. Kipps flushed scarlet. "_Did_ she?" he answered. Buggins laughed good-humouredly over his pipe. "Sir William suffers a lot from his gout," Pierce continued unabashed. (Buggins much amused with his pipe between his teeth.) Kipps became aware of Coote at hand. Coote nodded rather distantly to Pierce. "Hope I haven't kept you waiting, Kipps," he said. "I kep' a chair for you," said Kipps and removed a guardian foot. "But you've got your friends," said Coote. "Oh! _we_ don't mind," said Pierce cordially, "the more the merrier," and, "why don't you get a chair, Buggins?" Buggins shook his head in a sort of aside to Pierce and Coote coughed behind his hand. "Been kep' late at business?" asked Pierce. Coote turned quite pale and pretended not to hear. His eyes sought in space for a time and with a convulsive movement he recognised a distant acquaintance and raised his hat. Pierce had also become a little pale. He addressed himself to Kipps in an undertone. "Mr. Coote, isn't he?" he asked. Coote addressed himself to Kipps directly and exclusively. His manner had the calm of extreme tension. "I'm rather late," he said. "I think we ought almost to be going on _now_." Kipps stood up. "That's all right," he said. "Which way are you going?" said Pierce, standing also, and brushing some crumbs of cigarette ash from his sleeve. For a moment Coote was breathless. "Thank you," he said, and gasped. Then he delivered the necessary blow; "I don't think we're in need of your society, you know," and turned away. Kipps found himself falling over chairs and things in the wake of Coote, and then they were clear of the crowd. For a space Coote said nothing; then he remarked abruptly and quite angrily for him, "I think that was _awful_ Cheek!" Kipps made no reply.... The whole thing was an interesting little object lesson in distance, and it stuck in the front of Kipps' mind for a long time. He had particularly vivid the face of Pierce, with an expression between astonishment and anger. He felt as though he had struck Pierce in the face under circumstances that gave Pierce no power to reply. He did not attend very much to the duets and even forgot at the end of one of them to say how perfectly lovely it was. 4 But you must not imagine that the national ideal of a gentleman, as Coote developed it, was all a matter of deportment and selectness, a mere isolation from debasing associations. There is a Serious Side, a deeper aspect of the true, True Gentleman. The True Gentleman does not wear his heart on his sleeve. He is a polished surface above deeps. For example, he is deeply religious, as Coote was, as Mrs. Walshingham was, but outside the walls of a church it never appears, except perhaps now and then in a pause, in a profound look, in a sudden avoidance. In quite a little while Kipps also had learnt the pause, the profound look, the sudden avoidance, that final refinement of spirituality, impressionistic piety. And the True Gentleman is patriotic also. When one saw Coote lifting his hat to the National Anthem, then perhaps one got a glimpse of what patriotic emotions, what worship, the polish of a gentleman may hide. Or singing out his deep notes against the Hosts of Midian, in the St. Stylites choir; then indeed you plumbed his spiritual side. Christian, dost thou heed them, On the holy ground, How the hosts of Mid-i-an, Prowl and prowl around! Christian, up and smai-it them.... But these were but gleams. For the rest, Religion, Nationality, Passion, Money, Politics; much more so those cardinal issues, Birth and Death, the True Gentleman skirted about, and became facially rigid towards and ceased to speak and panted and blew. "One doesn't talk of that sort of thing," Coote would say with a gesture of the knuckly hand. "O' course," Kipps would reply, with an equal significance. Profundities. Deep as it were, blowing to deep. One does not talk, but on the other hand one is punctilious to do. Actions speak. Kipps--in spite of the fact that the Walshinghams were more than a little lax--Kipps, who had formerly flitted Sunday after Sunday from one Folkestone church to another, had now a sitting of his own, paid for duly at Saint Stylites. There he was to be seen, always at the surplice evening service, and sometimes of a morning, dressed with a sober precision, and with an eye on Coote in the chancel. No difficulties now about finding the place in his book. He became a communicant again--he had lapsed soon after his confirmation when the young lady in the costume-room, who was his adopted sister, left the Emporium--and he would sometimes go around to the Vestry for Coote after the service. One evening he was introduced to the Hon. and Rev. Densemore. He was much too confused to say anything, and the noble cleric had nothing to say, but indisputably they were introduced.... No! you must not imagine our national ideal of a gentleman is without its "serious side," without even its stern and uncompromising side. The imagination no doubt refuses to see Coote displaying extraordinary refinements of courage upon the stricken field, but in the walks of peace there is sometimes sore need of sternness. Charitable as one may be, one must admit there are people who _do_ things, impossible things; people who place themselves "out of it" in countless ways; people, moreover, who are by a sort of predestination out of it from the beginning, and against these Society has invented a terrible protection for its Cootery, the Cut. The cut is no joke for anyone. It is excommunication. You may be cut by an individual, you may be cut by a set or you may be--and this is so tragic that beautiful romances have been written about it--"Cut by the County." One figures Coote discharging this last duty and cutting somebody--Coote, erect and pale, never speaking, going past with eyes of pitiless slate, lower jaw protruding a little, face pursed up and cold and stiff.... It never dawned upon Kipps that he would one day have to face this terrible front, to be to Coote not only as one dead, but as one gone more than a stage or so in decay, cut and passed, banned and outcast for ever. Yet so it was to be! One cannot hide any longer that all this fine progress of Kipps is doomed to end in collapse. So far indeed you have seen him ascend. You have seen him becoming more refined and careful day by day, more carefully dressed, less clumsy in the ways and methods of social life. You have seen the gulf widening between himself and his former low associates. I have brought you at last to the vision of him, faultlessly dressed and posed, in an atmosphere of candlelight and chanting, in his own sitting in one of the most fashionable churches in Folkestone.... All the time I have refrained from the lightest touch upon the tragic note that must now creep into my tale. Yet the net of his low connections has been about his feet, and moreover there was something interwoven in his being.... CHAPTER VI DISCORDS 1 One day Kipps set out upon his newly-mastered bicycle to New Romney to break the news of his engagement to his Uncle and Aunt--this time positively. He was now a finished cyclist, but as yet an unseasoned one; the southwest wind, even in its summer guise, as one meets it in the Marsh, is the equivalent of a reasonable hill, and ever and again he got off and refreshed himself by a spell of walking. He was walking just outside New Romney preparatory to his triumphal entry (one hand off) when abruptly he came upon Ann Pornick. It chanced he was thinking about her at the time. He had been thinking curious things; whether, after all, the atmosphere of New Romney and the Marsh had not some difference, some faint impalpable quality that was missing in the great and fashionable world of Folkestone behind there on the hill. Here there was a homeliness, a familiarity. He had noted as he passed that old Mr. Cliffordown's gate had been mended with a fresh piece of

vu

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was a touch of motherliness in her feelings towards him. But his upbringing and his associations had been, she diagnosed, "awful." At New Romney she glanced but little; that was remote. But in her inventory--she went over him as one might go over a newly taken house, with impartial thoroughness--she discovered more proximate influences, surprising intimations of nocturnal "sing-songs"--she pictured it as almost shocking that Kipps should sing to the banjo--much low-grade wisdom treasured from a person called Buggins--"Who _is_ Buggins?" said Helen--vague figures of indisputable vulgarity, Pierce and Carshot, and more particularly, a very terrible social phenomenon, Chitterlow. Chitterlow blazed upon them with unheralded oppressive brilliance the first time they were abroad together. They were going along the front of the Leas to see a school play in Sandgate--at the last moment Mrs. Walshingham had been unable to come with them--when Chitterlow loomed up into the new world. He was wearing the suit of striped flannel and the straw hat that had followed Kipps' payment in advance for his course in elocution, his hands were deep in his side pockets and animated the corners of his jacket, and his attentive gaze at the passing loungers, the faint smile under his boldly drawn nose, showed him engaged in studying character--no doubt for some forthcoming play. "What HO!" said he, at the sight of Kipps, and swept off the straw hat with so ample a clutch of his great, flat hand that it suggested to Helen's startled mind a conjurer about to palm a half-penny. "'Ello, Chitt'low," said Kipps a little awkwardly and not saluting. Chitterlow hesitated. "Half a mo', my boy," he said, and arrested Kipps by extending a large hand over his chest. "Excuse me, my dear," he said, bowing like his Russian count by way of apology to Helen and with a smile that would have killed at a hundred yards. He affected a semi-confidential grouping of himself and Kipps while Helen stood in white amazement. "About that play," he said. "'Ow about it?" asked Kipps, acutely aware of Helen. "It's all right," said Chitterlow. "There's a strong smell of syndicate in the air, I may tell you--Strong." "That's aw right," said Kipps. "You needn't tell everybody," said Chitterlow with a transitory, confidential hand to his mouth, which pointed the application of the "everybody" just a trifle too strongly. "But I think it's coming off. However----. I mustn't detain you now. So long. You'll come 'round, eh?" "Right you are," said Kipps. "To-night?" "At eight." And then, and more in the manner of a Russian prince than any common count, Chitterlow bowed and withdrew. Just for a moment he allowed a conquering eye to challenge Helen's and noted her for a girl of quality.... There was a silence between our lovers for a space. "That," said Kipps with an allusive movement of the head, "was Chitterlow." "Is he--a friend of yours?" "In a way.... You see--I met 'im. Leastways 'e met me. Run into me with a bicycle, 'e did, and so we got talking together." He tried to appear at his ease. The young lady scrutinised his profile. "What is he?" "'E's a Nacter chap," said Kipps. "Leastways 'e writes plays." "And sells them?" "Partly." "Whom to?" "Different people. Shares he sells.... It's all right, reely--I meant to tell you about him before." Helen looked over her shoulder to catch a view of Chitterlow's retreating aspect. It did not compel her complete confidence. She turned to her lover and said in a tone of quiet authority, "You must tell me all about Chitterlow. Now." The explanation began.... The School Play came almost as a relief to Kipps. In the flusterment of going in he could almost forget for a time his Laocoon struggle to explain, and in the intervals he did his best to keep forgetting. But Helen, with a gentle insistence, resumed the explanation of Chitterlow as they returned towards Folkestone. Chitterlow was confoundedly difficult to explain. You could hardly imagine! There was an almost motherly anxiety in Helen's manner, blended with the resolution of a schoolmistress to get to the bottom of the affair. Kipps' ears were soon quite brightly red. "Have you seen one of his plays?" "'E's tole me about one." "But on the stage." "No. He 'asn't 'ad any on the stage yet. That's all coming...." "Promise me," she said in conclusion, "you won't do anything without consulting me." And of course Kipps promised. "Oo--no!" They went on their way in silence. "One can't know everybody," said Helen in general. "Of course," said Kipps; "in a sort of way it was him that helped me to my money." And he indicated in a confused manner the story of the advertisement. "I don't like to drop 'im all at once," he added. Helen was silent for a space, and when she spoke she went off at a tangent. "We shall live in London--soon," she remarked. "It's only while we are here." It was the first intimation she gave him of their post-nuptial prospects. "We shall have a nice little flat somewhere, not too far west, and there we shall build up a circle of our own." 2 All that declining summer Kipps was the pupil lover. He made an extraordinarily open secret of his desire for self-improvement; indeed Helen had to hint once or twice that his modest frankness was excessive, and all this new circle of friends did, each after his or her manner, everything that was possible to supplement Helen's efforts and help him to ease and skill in the more cultivated circles to which he had come. Coote was still the chief teacher, the tutor--there are so many little difficulties that a man may take to another man that he would not care to propound to the woman he loves--but they were all, so to speak, upon the staff. Even the freckled girl said to him once in a pleasant way, "You mustn't say "contre temps," you must say "contraytom,"" when he borrowed that expression from "Manners and Rules," and she tried at his own suggestion to give him clear ideas upon the subject of "as" and "has." A certain confusion between these words was becoming evident, the first fruits of a lesson from Chitterlow on the aspirate. Hitherto he had discarded that dangerous letter almost altogether, but now he would pull up at words beginning with "h" and draw a sawing breath--rather like a startled kitten--and then aspirate with vigour. Said Kipps one day, "_As_ 'e?--I should say, ah--Has 'e? Ye know I got a lot of difficulty over them two words, which is which?" "Well, 'as' is a conjunction and 'has' is a verb." "I know," said Kipps, "but when is 'has' a conjunction and when is 'as' a verb?" "Well," said the freckled girl, preparing to be very lucid. "It's _has_ when it means one has, meaning having, but if it isn't it's _as_. As for instance one says 'e--I mean _he_--He has. But one says 'as he has.'" "I see," said Kipps. "So I ought to say 'as 'e?'" "No, if you are asking a question you say _has_ 'e--I mean he--'as he?" She blushed quite brightly, but still clung to her air of lucidity. "I see," said Kipps. He was about to say something further, but he desisted. "I got it much clearer now. _Has_ 'e? _Has_ 'e as. Yes." "If you remember about having." "Oo I will," said Kipps. Miss Coote specialised in Kipps' artistic development. She had early found an opinion that he had considerable artistic sensibility, his remarks on her work had struck her as decidedly intelligent, and whenever he called around to see them she would show him some work of art, now an illustrated book, now perhaps a colour print of a Botticelli, now the Hundred Best Paintings, now "Academy Pictures," now a German art handbook and now some magazine of furniture and design. "I know you like these things," she used to say, and Kipps said, "Oo I _do_." He soon acquired a little armoury of appreciative sayings. When presently the Walshinghams took him up to the Arts and Crafts, his deportment was intelligent in the extreme. For a time he kept a wary silence and suddenly pitched upon a colour print. "That's rather nace," he said to Mrs. Walshingham. "That lill' thing. There." He always said things like that by preference to the mother rather than the daughter unless he was perfectly sure. He quite took to Mrs. Walshingham. He was impressed by her conspicuous tact and refinement; it seemed to him that the ladylike could go no further. She was always dressed with a delicate fussiness that was never disarranged and even a sort of faded quality about her hair and face and bearing and emotions contributed to her effect. Kipps was not a big man, and commonly he did not feel a big man, but with Mrs. Walshingham he always felt enormous and distended, as though he was a navvy who had taken some disagreeable poison which puffed him up inside his skin as a preliminary to bursting. He felt, too, as though he had been rolled in clay and his hair dressed with gum. And he felt that his voice was strident and his accent like somebody swinging a crowded pig's pail in a free and careless manner. All this increased and enforced his respect for her. Her hand, which flitted often and again to his hand and arm, was singularly well shaped and cool. "Arthur," she called him from the very beginning. She did not so much positively teach and tell him as tactfully guide and infect him. Her conversation was not so much didactic as exemplary. She would say, "I _do_ like people to do" so and so. She would tell him anecdotes of nice things done, of gentlemanly feats of graceful consideration; she would record her neat observations of people in trains and omnibuses; how, for example, a man had passed her change to the conductor, "quite a common man he looked," but he had lifted his hat. She stamped Kipps so deeply with the hat-raising habit that he would uncover if he found himself in the same railway ticket office with a lady had to stand ceremoniously until the difficulties of change drove him to an apologetic provisional oblique resumption of his headgear.... And robbing these things of any air of personal application, she threw about them an abundant talk about her two children--she called them her Twin Jewels quite frequently--about their gifts, their temperaments, their ambition, their need of opportunity. They needed opportunity, she would say, as other people needed air.... In his conversations with her Kipps always assumed, and she seemed to assume, that she was to join that home in London Helen foreshadowed, but he was surprised one day to gather that this was not to be the case. "It wouldn't do," said Helen, with decision. "We want to make a circle of our own." "But won't she be a bit lonely down here?" asked Kipps. "There's the Waces, and Mrs. Prebble and Mrs. Bindon Botting and--lots of people she knows." And Helen dismissed this possibility.... Young Walshingham's share in the educational syndicate was smaller. But he shone out when they went to London on that Arts and Crafts expedition. Then this rising man of affairs showed Kipps how to buy the more theatrical weeklies for consumption in the train, how to buy and what to buy in the way of cigarettes with gold tips and shilling cigars, and how to order hock for lunch and sparkling Moselle for dinner, how to calculate the fare of a hansom cab--penny a minute while he goes--how to look intelligently at an hotel tape, and how to sit still in a train like a thoughtful man instead of talking like a fool and giving yourself away. And he, too, would glance at the good time coming when they were to be in London for good and all. That prospect expanded and developed particulars. It presently took up a large part of Helen's conversation. Her conversations with Kipps were never of a grossly sentimental sort; there was a shyness of speech in that matter with both of them, but these new adumbrations were at least as interesting and not so directly disagreeable as the clear-cut intimations of personal defect that for a time had so greatly chastened Kipps' delight in her presence. The future presented itself with an almost perfect frankness as a joint campaign of Mrs. Walshingham's Twin Jewels upon the Great World, with Kipps in the capacity of baggage and supply. They would still be dreadfully poor, of course--this amazed Kipps, but he said nothing--until "Brudderkins" began to succeed, but if they were clever and lucky they might do a great deal. When Helen spoke of London a brooding look, as of one who contemplates a distant country, came into her eyes. Already it seemed they had the nucleus of a set. Brudderkins was a member of the Theatrical Judges, an excellent and influential little club of journalists and literary people, and he knew Shimer and Stargate and Whiffle, of the "Red Dragon," and besides these were the Revels. They knew the Revels quite well. Sidney Revel before his rapid rise to prominence as a writer of epigrammatic essays that were quite above the ordinary public, had been an assistant master at one of the best Folkestone schools, Brudderkins had brought him home to tea several times, and it was he had first suggested Helen should try and write. "It's perfectly easy," Sidney had said. He had been writing occasional things for the evening papers, and for the weekly reviews even at that time. Then he had gone up to London and had almost unavoidedly become a dramatic critic. Those brilliant essays had followed, and then "Red Hearts a-Beating," the romance that had made him. It was a tale of spirited adventure, full of youth and beauty and na ve passion and generous devotion, bold, as the _Bookman_ said, and frank in places, but never in the slightest degree morbid. He had met and married an American widow with quite a lot of money, and they had made a very distinct place for themselves, Kipps learnt, in the literary and artistic society of London. Helen seemed to dwell on the Revels a great deal; it was her exemplary story, and when she spoke of Sidney--she often called him Sidney--she would become thoughtful. She spoke most of him naturally because she had still to meet Mrs. Revel.... Certainly they would be in the world in no time, even if the distant connection with the Beaupres family came to nothing. Kipps gathered that with his marriage and the movement to London they were to undergo that subtle change of name Coote had first adumbrated. They were to become "Cuyps," Mr. and Mrs. Cuyps. Or, was it Cuyp? "It'll be rum at first," said Kipps. "I dessay I shall soon get into it."... So in their several ways they all contributed to enlarge and refine and exercise the intelligence of Kipps. And behind all these other influences, and, as it were, presiding over and correcting these influences, was Kipps' nearest friend, Coote, a sort of master of the ceremonies. You figure his face, blowing slightly with solicitude, his slate coloured, projecting but not unkindly eye intent upon our hero. The thing he thought was going off admirably. He studied Kipps' character immensely. He would discuss him with his sister, with Mrs. Walshingham, with the freckled girl, with anyone who would stand it. "He is an interesting character," he would say, "likable--a sort of gentleman by instinct. He takes to all these things. He improves every day. He'll soon get Sang Froid. We took him up just in time. He wants now--well----. Next year, perhaps, if there is a good Extension Literature course, he might go in for it. He wants to go in for something like that." "He's going in for his bicycle now," said Mrs. Walshingham. "That's all right for summer," said Coote, "but he wants to go in for some serious, intellectual interest, something to take him out of himself a little more. Savoir Faire and self-forgetfulness is more than half the secret of Sang Froid." 3 The world as Coote presented it was in part an endorsement, in part an amplification and in part a rectification of the world of Kipps, the world that derived from the old couple in New Romney and had been developed in the Emporium; the world, in fact, of common British life. There was the same subtle sense of social graduation that had moved Mrs. Kipps to prohibit intercourse with labourers' children and the same dread of anything "common" that had kept the personal quality of Mr. Shalford's establishment so high. But now a certain disagreeable doubt about Kipps' own position was removed and he stood with Coote inside the sphere of gentlemen assured. Within the sphere of gentlemen there are distinctions of rank indeed, but none of class; there are the Big People and the modest, refined, gentlemanly little people like Coote, who may even dabble in the professions and counterless trades; there are lords and magnificences, and there are gentle folk who have to manage, but they can all call on one another, they preserve a general equality of deportment throughout, they constitute that great state within the state, Society, or at any rate they make believe they do. "But reely," said the Pupil, "not what you call being in Society?" "Yes," said Coote. "Of course, down here one doesn't see much of it, but there's local society. It has the same rules." "Calling and all that?" "Precisely," said Coote. Kipps thought, whistled a bar, and suddenly broached a question of conscience. "I often wonder," he said, "whether I oughtn't to dress for dinner--when I'm alone 'ere." Coote protruded his lips and reflected. "Not full dress," he adjudicated; "that would be a little excessive. But you should _change_, you know. Put on a mess jacket and that sort of thing--easy dress. That is what _I_ should do, certainly, if I wasn't in harness--and poor." He coughed modestly and patted his hair behind. And after that the washing bill of Kipps quadrupled, and he was to be seen at times by the bandstand with his light summer overcoat unbuttoned to give a glimpse of his nice white tie. He and Coote would be smoking the gold-tipped cigarettes young Walshingham had prescribed as _chic_, and appreciating the music highly. "That's--puff--a very nice bit," Kipps would say, or better, "That's nace." And at the first grunts of the loyal anthem up they stood with religiously uplifted hats. Whatever else you might call them, you could never call them disloyal. The boundary of Society was admittedly very close to Coote and Kipps, and a leading solicitude of the true gentleman was to detect clearly those "beneath" him, and to behave towards them in a proper spirit. "It's jest there it's so 'ard for me," said Kipps. He had to cultivate a certain "distance," to acquire altogether the art of checking the presumption of bounders and old friends. It was difficult, Coote admitted. "That's what, so harkward--I mean awkward." "I got mixed up with this lot 'ere," said Kipps. "You could give them a hint," said Coote. "'Ow?" "Oh!--the occasion will suggest something." The occasion came one early closing night when Kipps was sitting in a canopy chair near the bandstand, with his summer overcoat fully open and a new Gibus pulled slightly forward over his brow, waiting for Coote. They were to hear the band for an hour and then go down to assist Miss Coote and the freckled girl in trying over some of Beethoven's duets, if they remembered them, that is, sufficiently well. And as Kipps lounged back in his chair and occupied his mind with his favourite amusement on such evenings, which consisted chiefly in supposing that everyone about him was wondering who he was, came a rude rap at the canvas back and the voice of Pierce. "It's nice to be a gentleman," said Pierce, and swung a penny chair into position while Buggins appeared smiling agreeably on the other side and leant upon his stick. _He was smoking a common briar pipe!_ Two real ladies, very fashionably dressed and sitting close at hand, glanced quickly at Pierce, and then away again, and it was evident _their_ wonder was at an end. "_He's_ all right," said Buggins, removing his pipe and surveying Kipps. "'Ello, Buggins!" said Kipps, not too cordially. "'Ow goes it?" "All right. Holiday's next week. If you don't look out, Kipps, I shall be on the Continong before you. Eh?" "You going t' Boologne?" "Ra-ther. Parley vous Francey. You bet." "_I_ shall 'ave a bit of a run over there one of these days," said Kipps. There came a pause. Pierce applied the top of his stick to his mouth for a space and regarded Kipps. Then he glanced at the people about them. "I say, Kipps," he said in a distinct, loud voice, "see 'er Ladyship lately?" Kipps perceived the audience was to be impressed, but he responded half-heartedly, "No, I 'aven't," he said. "She was along of Sir William the other night," said Pierce, still loud and clear, "and she asked to be remembered to you." It seemed to Kipps that one of the two ladies smiled faintly and said something to the other, and then certainly they glanced at Pierce. Kipps flushed scarlet. "_Did_ she?" he answered. Buggins laughed good-humouredly over his pipe. "Sir William suffers a lot from his gout," Pierce continued unabashed. (Buggins much amused with his pipe between his teeth.) Kipps became aware of Coote at hand. Coote nodded rather distantly to Pierce. "Hope I haven't kept you waiting, Kipps," he said. "I kep' a chair for you," said Kipps and removed a guardian foot. "But you've got your friends," said Coote. "Oh! _we_ don't mind," said Pierce cordially, "the more the merrier," and, "why don't you get a chair, Buggins?" Buggins shook his head in a sort of aside to Pierce and Coote coughed behind his hand. "Been kep' late at business?" asked Pierce. Coote turned quite pale and pretended not to hear. His eyes sought in space for a time and with a convulsive movement he recognised a distant acquaintance and raised his hat. Pierce had also become a little pale. He addressed himself to Kipps in an undertone. "Mr. Coote, isn't he?" he asked. Coote addressed himself to Kipps directly and exclusively. His manner had the calm of extreme tension. "I'm rather late," he said. "I think we ought almost to be going on _now_." Kipps stood up. "That's all right," he said. "Which way are you going?" said Pierce, standing also, and brushing some crumbs of cigarette ash from his sleeve. For a moment Coote was breathless. "Thank you," he said, and gasped. Then he delivered the necessary blow; "I don't think we're in need of your society, you know," and turned away. Kipps found himself falling over chairs and things in the wake of Coote, and then they were clear of the crowd. For a space Coote said nothing; then he remarked abruptly and quite angrily for him, "I think that was _awful_ Cheek!" Kipps made no reply.... The whole thing was an interesting little object lesson in distance, and it stuck in the front of Kipps' mind for a long time. He had particularly vivid the face of Pierce, with an expression between astonishment and anger. He felt as though he had struck Pierce in the face under circumstances that gave Pierce no power to reply. He did not attend very much to the duets and even forgot at the end of one of them to say how perfectly lovely it was. 4 But you must not imagine that the national ideal of a gentleman, as Coote developed it, was all a matter of deportment and selectness, a mere isolation from debasing associations. There is a Serious Side, a deeper aspect of the true, True Gentleman. The True Gentleman does not wear his heart on his sleeve. He is a polished surface above deeps. For example, he is deeply religious, as Coote was, as Mrs. Walshingham was, but outside the walls of a church it never appears, except perhaps now and then in a pause, in a profound look, in a sudden avoidance. In quite a little while Kipps also had learnt the pause, the profound look, the sudden avoidance, that final refinement of spirituality, impressionistic piety. And the True Gentleman is patriotic also. When one saw Coote lifting his hat to the National Anthem, then perhaps one got a glimpse of what patriotic emotions, what worship, the polish of a gentleman may hide. Or singing out his deep notes against the Hosts of Midian, in the St. Stylites choir; then indeed you plumbed his spiritual side. Christian, dost thou heed them, On the holy ground, How the hosts of Mid-i-an, Prowl and prowl around! Christian, up and smai-it them.... But these were but gleams. For the rest, Religion, Nationality, Passion, Money, Politics; much more so those cardinal issues, Birth and Death, the True Gentleman skirted about, and became facially rigid towards and ceased to speak and panted and blew. "One doesn't talk of that sort of thing," Coote would say with a gesture of the knuckly hand. "O' course," Kipps would reply, with an equal significance. Profundities. Deep as it were, blowing to deep. One does not talk, but on the other hand one is punctilious to do. Actions speak. Kipps--in spite of the fact that the Walshinghams were more than a little lax--Kipps, who had formerly flitted Sunday after Sunday from one Folkestone church to another, had now a sitting of his own, paid for duly at Saint Stylites. There he was to be seen, always at the surplice evening service, and sometimes of a morning, dressed with a sober precision, and with an eye on Coote in the chancel. No difficulties now about finding the place in his book. He became a communicant again--he had lapsed soon after his confirmation when the young lady in the costume-room, who was his adopted sister, left the Emporium--and he would sometimes go around to the Vestry for Coote after the service. One evening he was introduced to the Hon. and Rev. Densemore. He was much too confused to say anything, and the noble cleric had nothing to say, but indisputably they were introduced.... No! you must not imagine our national ideal of a gentleman is without its "serious side," without even its stern and uncompromising side. The imagination no doubt refuses to see Coote displaying extraordinary refinements of courage upon the stricken field, but in the walks of peace there is sometimes sore need of sternness. Charitable as one may be, one must admit there are people who _do_ things, impossible things; people who place themselves "out of it" in countless ways; people, moreover, who are by a sort of predestination out of it from the beginning, and against these Society has invented a terrible protection for its Cootery, the Cut. The cut is no joke for anyone. It is excommunication. You may be cut by an individual, you may be cut by a set or you may be--and this is so tragic that beautiful romances have been written about it--"Cut by the County." One figures Coote discharging this last duty and cutting somebody--Coote, erect and pale, never speaking, going past with eyes of pitiless slate, lower jaw protruding a little, face pursed up and cold and stiff.... It never dawned upon Kipps that he would one day have to face this terrible front, to be to Coote not only as one dead, but as one gone more than a stage or so in decay, cut and passed, banned and outcast for ever. Yet so it was to be! One cannot hide any longer that all this fine progress of Kipps is doomed to end in collapse. So far indeed you have seen him ascend. You have seen him becoming more refined and careful day by day, more carefully dressed, less clumsy in the ways and methods of social life. You have seen the gulf widening between himself and his former low associates. I have brought you at last to the vision of him, faultlessly dressed and posed, in an atmosphere of candlelight and chanting, in his own sitting in one of the most fashionable churches in Folkestone.... All the time I have refrained from the lightest touch upon the tragic note that must now creep into my tale. Yet the net of his low connections has been about his feet, and moreover there was something interwoven in his being.... CHAPTER VI DISCORDS 1 One day Kipps set out upon his newly-mastered bicycle to New Romney to break the news of his engagement to his Uncle and Aunt--this time positively. He was now a finished cyclist, but as yet an unseasoned one; the southwest wind, even in its summer guise, as one meets it in the Marsh, is the equivalent of a reasonable hill, and ever and again he got off and refreshed himself by a spell of walking. He was walking just outside New Romney preparatory to his triumphal entry (one hand off) when abruptly he came upon Ann Pornick. It chanced he was thinking about her at the time. He had been thinking curious things; whether, after all, the atmosphere of New Romney and the Marsh had not some difference, some faint impalpable quality that was missing in the great and fashionable world of Folkestone behind there on the hill. Here there was a homeliness, a familiarity. He had noted as he passed that old Mr. Cliffordown's gate had been mended with a fresh piece of

delicate

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

was a touch of motherliness in her feelings towards him. But his upbringing and his associations had been, she diagnosed, "awful." At New Romney she glanced but little; that was remote. But in her inventory--she went over him as one might go over a newly taken house, with impartial thoroughness--she discovered more proximate influences, surprising intimations of nocturnal "sing-songs"--she pictured it as almost shocking that Kipps should sing to the banjo--much low-grade wisdom treasured from a person called Buggins--"Who _is_ Buggins?" said Helen--vague figures of indisputable vulgarity, Pierce and Carshot, and more particularly, a very terrible social phenomenon, Chitterlow. Chitterlow blazed upon them with unheralded oppressive brilliance the first time they were abroad together. They were going along the front of the Leas to see a school play in Sandgate--at the last moment Mrs. Walshingham had been unable to come with them--when Chitterlow loomed up into the new world. He was wearing the suit of striped flannel and the straw hat that had followed Kipps' payment in advance for his course in elocution, his hands were deep in his side pockets and animated the corners of his jacket, and his attentive gaze at the passing loungers, the faint smile under his boldly drawn nose, showed him engaged in studying character--no doubt for some forthcoming play. "What HO!" said he, at the sight of Kipps, and swept off the straw hat with so ample a clutch of his great, flat hand that it suggested to Helen's startled mind a conjurer about to palm a half-penny. "'Ello, Chitt'low," said Kipps a little awkwardly and not saluting. Chitterlow hesitated. "Half a mo', my boy," he said, and arrested Kipps by extending a large hand over his chest. "Excuse me, my dear," he said, bowing like his Russian count by way of apology to Helen and with a smile that would have killed at a hundred yards. He affected a semi-confidential grouping of himself and Kipps while Helen stood in white amazement. "About that play," he said. "'Ow about it?" asked Kipps, acutely aware of Helen. "It's all right," said Chitterlow. "There's a strong smell of syndicate in the air, I may tell you--Strong." "That's aw right," said Kipps. "You needn't tell everybody," said Chitterlow with a transitory, confidential hand to his mouth, which pointed the application of the "everybody" just a trifle too strongly. "But I think it's coming off. However----. I mustn't detain you now. So long. You'll come 'round, eh?" "Right you are," said Kipps. "To-night?" "At eight." And then, and more in the manner of a Russian prince than any common count, Chitterlow bowed and withdrew. Just for a moment he allowed a conquering eye to challenge Helen's and noted her for a girl of quality.... There was a silence between our lovers for a space. "That," said Kipps with an allusive movement of the head, "was Chitterlow." "Is he--a friend of yours?" "In a way.... You see--I met 'im. Leastways 'e met me. Run into me with a bicycle, 'e did, and so we got talking together." He tried to appear at his ease. The young lady scrutinised his profile. "What is he?" "'E's a Nacter chap," said Kipps. "Leastways 'e writes plays." "And sells them?" "Partly." "Whom to?" "Different people. Shares he sells.... It's all right, reely--I meant to tell you about him before." Helen looked over her shoulder to catch a view of Chitterlow's retreating aspect. It did not compel her complete confidence. She turned to her lover and said in a tone of quiet authority, "You must tell me all about Chitterlow. Now." The explanation began.... The School Play came almost as a relief to Kipps. In the flusterment of going in he could almost forget for a time his Laocoon struggle to explain, and in the intervals he did his best to keep forgetting. But Helen, with a gentle insistence, resumed the explanation of Chitterlow as they returned towards Folkestone. Chitterlow was confoundedly difficult to explain. You could hardly imagine! There was an almost motherly anxiety in Helen's manner, blended with the resolution of a schoolmistress to get to the bottom of the affair. Kipps' ears were soon quite brightly red. "Have you seen one of his plays?" "'E's tole me about one." "But on the stage." "No. He 'asn't 'ad any on the stage yet. That's all coming...." "Promise me," she said in conclusion, "you won't do anything without consulting me." And of course Kipps promised. "Oo--no!" They went on their way in silence. "One can't know everybody," said Helen in general. "Of course," said Kipps; "in a sort of way it was him that helped me to my money." And he indicated in a confused manner the story of the advertisement. "I don't like to drop 'im all at once," he added. Helen was silent for a space, and when she spoke she went off at a tangent. "We shall live in London--soon," she remarked. "It's only while we are here." It was the first intimation she gave him of their post-nuptial prospects. "We shall have a nice little flat somewhere, not too far west, and there we shall build up a circle of our own." 2 All that declining summer Kipps was the pupil lover. He made an extraordinarily open secret of his desire for self-improvement; indeed Helen had to hint once or twice that his modest frankness was excessive, and all this new circle of friends did, each after his or her manner, everything that was possible to supplement Helen's efforts and help him to ease and skill in the more cultivated circles to which he had come. Coote was still the chief teacher, the tutor--there are so many little difficulties that a man may take to another man that he would not care to propound to the woman he loves--but they were all, so to speak, upon the staff. Even the freckled girl said to him once in a pleasant way, "You mustn't say "contre temps," you must say "contraytom,"" when he borrowed that expression from "Manners and Rules," and she tried at his own suggestion to give him clear ideas upon the subject of "as" and "has." A certain confusion between these words was becoming evident, the first fruits of a lesson from Chitterlow on the aspirate. Hitherto he had discarded that dangerous letter almost altogether, but now he would pull up at words beginning with "h" and draw a sawing breath--rather like a startled kitten--and then aspirate with vigour. Said Kipps one day, "_As_ 'e?--I should say, ah--Has 'e? Ye know I got a lot of difficulty over them two words, which is which?" "Well, 'as' is a conjunction and 'has' is a verb." "I know," said Kipps, "but when is 'has' a conjunction and when is 'as' a verb?" "Well," said the freckled girl, preparing to be very lucid. "It's _has_ when it means one has, meaning having, but if it isn't it's _as_. As for instance one says 'e--I mean _he_--He has. But one says 'as he has.'" "I see," said Kipps. "So I ought to say 'as 'e?'" "No, if you are asking a question you say _has_ 'e--I mean he--'as he?" She blushed quite brightly, but still clung to her air of lucidity. "I see," said Kipps. He was about to say something further, but he desisted. "I got it much clearer now. _Has_ 'e? _Has_ 'e as. Yes." "If you remember about having." "Oo I will," said Kipps. Miss Coote specialised in Kipps' artistic development. She had early found an opinion that he had considerable artistic sensibility, his remarks on her work had struck her as decidedly intelligent, and whenever he called around to see them she would show him some work of art, now an illustrated book, now perhaps a colour print of a Botticelli, now the Hundred Best Paintings, now "Academy Pictures," now a German art handbook and now some magazine of furniture and design. "I know you like these things," she used to say, and Kipps said, "Oo I _do_." He soon acquired a little armoury of appreciative sayings. When presently the Walshinghams took him up to the Arts and Crafts, his deportment was intelligent in the extreme. For a time he kept a wary silence and suddenly pitched upon a colour print. "That's rather nace," he said to Mrs. Walshingham. "That lill' thing. There." He always said things like that by preference to the mother rather than the daughter unless he was perfectly sure. He quite took to Mrs. Walshingham. He was impressed by her conspicuous tact and refinement; it seemed to him that the ladylike could go no further. She was always dressed with a delicate fussiness that was never disarranged and even a sort of faded quality about her hair and face and bearing and emotions contributed to her effect. Kipps was not a big man, and commonly he did not feel a big man, but with Mrs. Walshingham he always felt enormous and distended, as though he was a navvy who had taken some disagreeable poison which puffed him up inside his skin as a preliminary to bursting. He felt, too, as though he had been rolled in clay and his hair dressed with gum. And he felt that his voice was strident and his accent like somebody swinging a crowded pig's pail in a free and careless manner. All this increased and enforced his respect for her. Her hand, which flitted often and again to his hand and arm, was singularly well shaped and cool. "Arthur," she called him from the very beginning. She did not so much positively teach and tell him as tactfully guide and infect him. Her conversation was not so much didactic as exemplary. She would say, "I _do_ like people to do" so and so. She would tell him anecdotes of nice things done, of gentlemanly feats of graceful consideration; she would record her neat observations of people in trains and omnibuses; how, for example, a man had passed her change to the conductor, "quite a common man he looked," but he had lifted his hat. She stamped Kipps so deeply with the hat-raising habit that he would uncover if he found himself in the same railway ticket office with a lady had to stand ceremoniously until the difficulties of change drove him to an apologetic provisional oblique resumption of his headgear.... And robbing these things of any air of personal application, she threw about them an abundant talk about her two children--she called them her Twin Jewels quite frequently--about their gifts, their temperaments, their ambition, their need of opportunity. They needed opportunity, she would say, as other people needed air.... In his conversations with her Kipps always assumed, and she seemed to assume, that she was to join that home in London Helen foreshadowed, but he was surprised one day to gather that this was not to be the case. "It wouldn't do," said Helen, with decision. "We want to make a circle of our own." "But won't she be a bit lonely down here?" asked Kipps. "There's the Waces, and Mrs. Prebble and Mrs. Bindon Botting and--lots of people she knows." And Helen dismissed this possibility.... Young Walshingham's share in the educational syndicate was smaller. But he shone out when they went to London on that Arts and Crafts expedition. Then this rising man of affairs showed Kipps how to buy the more theatrical weeklies for consumption in the train, how to buy and what to buy in the way of cigarettes with gold tips and shilling cigars, and how to order hock for lunch and sparkling Moselle for dinner, how to calculate the fare of a hansom cab--penny a minute while he goes--how to look intelligently at an hotel tape, and how to sit still in a train like a thoughtful man instead of talking like a fool and giving yourself away. And he, too, would glance at the good time coming when they were to be in London for good and all. That prospect expanded and developed particulars. It presently took up a large part of Helen's conversation. Her conversations with Kipps were never of a grossly sentimental sort; there was a shyness of speech in that matter with both of them, but these new adumbrations were at least as interesting and not so directly disagreeable as the clear-cut intimations of personal defect that for a time had so greatly chastened Kipps' delight in her presence. The future presented itself with an almost perfect frankness as a joint campaign of Mrs. Walshingham's Twin Jewels upon the Great World, with Kipps in the capacity of baggage and supply. They would still be dreadfully poor, of course--this amazed Kipps, but he said nothing--until "Brudderkins" began to succeed, but if they were clever and lucky they might do a great deal. When Helen spoke of London a brooding look, as of one who contemplates a distant country, came into her eyes. Already it seemed they had the nucleus of a set. Brudderkins was a member of the Theatrical Judges, an excellent and influential little club of journalists and literary people, and he knew Shimer and Stargate and Whiffle, of the "Red Dragon," and besides these were the Revels. They knew the Revels quite well. Sidney Revel before his rapid rise to prominence as a writer of epigrammatic essays that were quite above the ordinary public, had been an assistant master at one of the best Folkestone schools, Brudderkins had brought him home to tea several times, and it was he had first suggested Helen should try and write. "It's perfectly easy," Sidney had said. He had been writing occasional things for the evening papers, and for the weekly reviews even at that time. Then he had gone up to London and had almost unavoidedly become a dramatic critic. Those brilliant essays had followed, and then "Red Hearts a-Beating," the romance that had made him. It was a tale of spirited adventure, full of youth and beauty and na ve passion and generous devotion, bold, as the _Bookman_ said, and frank in places, but never in the slightest degree morbid. He had met and married an American widow with quite a lot of money, and they had made a very distinct place for themselves, Kipps learnt, in the literary and artistic society of London. Helen seemed to dwell on the Revels a great deal; it was her exemplary story, and when she spoke of Sidney--she often called him Sidney--she would become thoughtful. She spoke most of him naturally because she had still to meet Mrs. Revel.... Certainly they would be in the world in no time, even if the distant connection with the Beaupres family came to nothing. Kipps gathered that with his marriage and the movement to London they were to undergo that subtle change of name Coote had first adumbrated. They were to become "Cuyps," Mr. and Mrs. Cuyps. Or, was it Cuyp? "It'll be rum at first," said Kipps. "I dessay I shall soon get into it."... So in their several ways they all contributed to enlarge and refine and exercise the intelligence of Kipps. And behind all these other influences, and, as it were, presiding over and correcting these influences, was Kipps' nearest friend, Coote, a sort of master of the ceremonies. You figure his face, blowing slightly with solicitude, his slate coloured, projecting but not unkindly eye intent upon our hero. The thing he thought was going off admirably. He studied Kipps' character immensely. He would discuss him with his sister, with Mrs. Walshingham, with the freckled girl, with anyone who would stand it. "He is an interesting character," he would say, "likable--a sort of gentleman by instinct. He takes to all these things. He improves every day. He'll soon get Sang Froid. We took him up just in time. He wants now--well----. Next year, perhaps, if there is a good Extension Literature course, he might go in for it. He wants to go in for something like that." "He's going in for his bicycle now," said Mrs. Walshingham. "That's all right for summer," said Coote, "but he wants to go in for some serious, intellectual interest, something to take him out of himself a little more. Savoir Faire and self-forgetfulness is more than half the secret of Sang Froid." 3 The world as Coote presented it was in part an endorsement, in part an amplification and in part a rectification of the world of Kipps, the world that derived from the old couple in New Romney and had been developed in the Emporium; the world, in fact, of common British life. There was the same subtle sense of social graduation that had moved Mrs. Kipps to prohibit intercourse with labourers' children and the same dread of anything "common" that had kept the personal quality of Mr. Shalford's establishment so high. But now a certain disagreeable doubt about Kipps' own position was removed and he stood with Coote inside the sphere of gentlemen assured. Within the sphere of gentlemen there are distinctions of rank indeed, but none of class; there are the Big People and the modest, refined, gentlemanly little people like Coote, who may even dabble in the professions and counterless trades; there are lords and magnificences, and there are gentle folk who have to manage, but they can all call on one another, they preserve a general equality of deportment throughout, they constitute that great state within the state, Society, or at any rate they make believe they do. "But reely," said the Pupil, "not what you call being in Society?" "Yes," said Coote. "Of course, down here one doesn't see much of it, but there's local society. It has the same rules." "Calling and all that?" "Precisely," said Coote. Kipps thought, whistled a bar, and suddenly broached a question of conscience. "I often wonder," he said, "whether I oughtn't to dress for dinner--when I'm alone 'ere." Coote protruded his lips and reflected. "Not full dress," he adjudicated; "that would be a little excessive. But you should _change_, you know. Put on a mess jacket and that sort of thing--easy dress. That is what _I_ should do, certainly, if I wasn't in harness--and poor." He coughed modestly and patted his hair behind. And after that the washing bill of Kipps quadrupled, and he was to be seen at times by the bandstand with his light summer overcoat unbuttoned to give a glimpse of his nice white tie. He and Coote would be smoking the gold-tipped cigarettes young Walshingham had prescribed as _chic_, and appreciating the music highly. "That's--puff--a very nice bit," Kipps would say, or better, "That's nace." And at the first grunts of the loyal anthem up they stood with religiously uplifted hats. Whatever else you might call them, you could never call them disloyal. The boundary of Society was admittedly very close to Coote and Kipps, and a leading solicitude of the true gentleman was to detect clearly those "beneath" him, and to behave towards them in a proper spirit. "It's jest there it's so 'ard for me," said Kipps. He had to cultivate a certain "distance," to acquire altogether the art of checking the presumption of bounders and old friends. It was difficult, Coote admitted. "That's what, so harkward--I mean awkward." "I got mixed up with this lot 'ere," said Kipps. "You could give them a hint," said Coote. "'Ow?" "Oh!--the occasion will suggest something." The occasion came one early closing night when Kipps was sitting in a canopy chair near the bandstand, with his summer overcoat fully open and a new Gibus pulled slightly forward over his brow, waiting for Coote. They were to hear the band for an hour and then go down to assist Miss Coote and the freckled girl in trying over some of Beethoven's duets, if they remembered them, that is, sufficiently well. And as Kipps lounged back in his chair and occupied his mind with his favourite amusement on such evenings, which consisted chiefly in supposing that everyone about him was wondering who he was, came a rude rap at the canvas back and the voice of Pierce. "It's nice to be a gentleman," said Pierce, and swung a penny chair into position while Buggins appeared smiling agreeably on the other side and leant upon his stick. _He was smoking a common briar pipe!_ Two real ladies, very fashionably dressed and sitting close at hand, glanced quickly at Pierce, and then away again, and it was evident _their_ wonder was at an end. "_He's_ all right," said Buggins, removing his pipe and surveying Kipps. "'Ello, Buggins!" said Kipps, not too cordially. "'Ow goes it?" "All right. Holiday's next week. If you don't look out, Kipps, I shall be on the Continong before you. Eh?" "You going t' Boologne?" "Ra-ther. Parley vous Francey. You bet." "_I_ shall 'ave a bit of a run over there one of these days," said Kipps. There came a pause. Pierce applied the top of his stick to his mouth for a space and regarded Kipps. Then he glanced at the people about them. "I say, Kipps," he said in a distinct, loud voice, "see 'er Ladyship lately?" Kipps perceived the audience was to be impressed, but he responded half-heartedly, "No, I 'aven't," he said. "She was along of Sir William the other night," said Pierce, still loud and clear, "and she asked to be remembered to you." It seemed to Kipps that one of the two ladies smiled faintly and said something to the other, and then certainly they glanced at Pierce. Kipps flushed scarlet. "_Did_ she?" he answered. Buggins laughed good-humouredly over his pipe. "Sir William suffers a lot from his gout," Pierce continued unabashed. (Buggins much amused with his pipe between his teeth.) Kipps became aware of Coote at hand. Coote nodded rather distantly to Pierce. "Hope I haven't kept you waiting, Kipps," he said. "I kep' a chair for you," said Kipps and removed a guardian foot. "But you've got your friends," said Coote. "Oh! _we_ don't mind," said Pierce cordially, "the more the merrier," and, "why don't you get a chair, Buggins?" Buggins shook his head in a sort of aside to Pierce and Coote coughed behind his hand. "Been kep' late at business?" asked Pierce. Coote turned quite pale and pretended not to hear. His eyes sought in space for a time and with a convulsive movement he recognised a distant acquaintance and raised his hat. Pierce had also become a little pale. He addressed himself to Kipps in an undertone. "Mr. Coote, isn't he?" he asked. Coote addressed himself to Kipps directly and exclusively. His manner had the calm of extreme tension. "I'm rather late," he said. "I think we ought almost to be going on _now_." Kipps stood up. "That's all right," he said. "Which way are you going?" said Pierce, standing also, and brushing some crumbs of cigarette ash from his sleeve. For a moment Coote was breathless. "Thank you," he said, and gasped. Then he delivered the necessary blow; "I don't think we're in need of your society, you know," and turned away. Kipps found himself falling over chairs and things in the wake of Coote, and then they were clear of the crowd. For a space Coote said nothing; then he remarked abruptly and quite angrily for him, "I think that was _awful_ Cheek!" Kipps made no reply.... The whole thing was an interesting little object lesson in distance, and it stuck in the front of Kipps' mind for a long time. He had particularly vivid the face of Pierce, with an expression between astonishment and anger. He felt as though he had struck Pierce in the face under circumstances that gave Pierce no power to reply. He did not attend very much to the duets and even forgot at the end of one of them to say how perfectly lovely it was. 4 But you must not imagine that the national ideal of a gentleman, as Coote developed it, was all a matter of deportment and selectness, a mere isolation from debasing associations. There is a Serious Side, a deeper aspect of the true, True Gentleman. The True Gentleman does not wear his heart on his sleeve. He is a polished surface above deeps. For example, he is deeply religious, as Coote was, as Mrs. Walshingham was, but outside the walls of a church it never appears, except perhaps now and then in a pause, in a profound look, in a sudden avoidance. In quite a little while Kipps also had learnt the pause, the profound look, the sudden avoidance, that final refinement of spirituality, impressionistic piety. And the True Gentleman is patriotic also. When one saw Coote lifting his hat to the National Anthem, then perhaps one got a glimpse of what patriotic emotions, what worship, the polish of a gentleman may hide. Or singing out his deep notes against the Hosts of Midian, in the St. Stylites choir; then indeed you plumbed his spiritual side. Christian, dost thou heed them, On the holy ground, How the hosts of Mid-i-an, Prowl and prowl around! Christian, up and smai-it them.... But these were but gleams. For the rest, Religion, Nationality, Passion, Money, Politics; much more so those cardinal issues, Birth and Death, the True Gentleman skirted about, and became facially rigid towards and ceased to speak and panted and blew. "One doesn't talk of that sort of thing," Coote would say with a gesture of the knuckly hand. "O' course," Kipps would reply, with an equal significance. Profundities. Deep as it were, blowing to deep. One does not talk, but on the other hand one is punctilious to do. Actions speak. Kipps--in spite of the fact that the Walshinghams were more than a little lax--Kipps, who had formerly flitted Sunday after Sunday from one Folkestone church to another, had now a sitting of his own, paid for duly at Saint Stylites. There he was to be seen, always at the surplice evening service, and sometimes of a morning, dressed with a sober precision, and with an eye on Coote in the chancel. No difficulties now about finding the place in his book. He became a communicant again--he had lapsed soon after his confirmation when the young lady in the costume-room, who was his adopted sister, left the Emporium--and he would sometimes go around to the Vestry for Coote after the service. One evening he was introduced to the Hon. and Rev. Densemore. He was much too confused to say anything, and the noble cleric had nothing to say, but indisputably they were introduced.... No! you must not imagine our national ideal of a gentleman is without its "serious side," without even its stern and uncompromising side. The imagination no doubt refuses to see Coote displaying extraordinary refinements of courage upon the stricken field, but in the walks of peace there is sometimes sore need of sternness. Charitable as one may be, one must admit there are people who _do_ things, impossible things; people who place themselves "out of it" in countless ways; people, moreover, who are by a sort of predestination out of it from the beginning, and against these Society has invented a terrible protection for its Cootery, the Cut. The cut is no joke for anyone. It is excommunication. You may be cut by an individual, you may be cut by a set or you may be--and this is so tragic that beautiful romances have been written about it--"Cut by the County." One figures Coote discharging this last duty and cutting somebody--Coote, erect and pale, never speaking, going past with eyes of pitiless slate, lower jaw protruding a little, face pursed up and cold and stiff.... It never dawned upon Kipps that he would one day have to face this terrible front, to be to Coote not only as one dead, but as one gone more than a stage or so in decay, cut and passed, banned and outcast for ever. Yet so it was to be! One cannot hide any longer that all this fine progress of Kipps is doomed to end in collapse. So far indeed you have seen him ascend. You have seen him becoming more refined and careful day by day, more carefully dressed, less clumsy in the ways and methods of social life. You have seen the gulf widening between himself and his former low associates. I have brought you at last to the vision of him, faultlessly dressed and posed, in an atmosphere of candlelight and chanting, in his own sitting in one of the most fashionable churches in Folkestone.... All the time I have refrained from the lightest touch upon the tragic note that must now creep into my tale. Yet the net of his low connections has been about his feet, and moreover there was something interwoven in his being.... CHAPTER VI DISCORDS 1 One day Kipps set out upon his newly-mastered bicycle to New Romney to break the news of his engagement to his Uncle and Aunt--this time positively. He was now a finished cyclist, but as yet an unseasoned one; the southwest wind, even in its summer guise, as one meets it in the Marsh, is the equivalent of a reasonable hill, and ever and again he got off and refreshed himself by a spell of walking. He was walking just outside New Romney preparatory to his triumphal entry (one hand off) when abruptly he came upon Ann Pornick. It chanced he was thinking about her at the time. He had been thinking curious things; whether, after all, the atmosphere of New Romney and the Marsh had not some difference, some faint impalpable quality that was missing in the great and fashionable world of Folkestone behind there on the hill. Here there was a homeliness, a familiarity. He had noted as he passed that old Mr. Cliffordown's gate had been mended with a fresh piece of

then

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

was a touch of motherliness in her feelings towards him. But his upbringing and his associations had been, she diagnosed, "awful." At New Romney she glanced but little; that was remote. But in her inventory--she went over him as one might go over a newly taken house, with impartial thoroughness--she discovered more proximate influences, surprising intimations of nocturnal "sing-songs"--she pictured it as almost shocking that Kipps should sing to the banjo--much low-grade wisdom treasured from a person called Buggins--"Who _is_ Buggins?" said Helen--vague figures of indisputable vulgarity, Pierce and Carshot, and more particularly, a very terrible social phenomenon, Chitterlow. Chitterlow blazed upon them with unheralded oppressive brilliance the first time they were abroad together. They were going along the front of the Leas to see a school play in Sandgate--at the last moment Mrs. Walshingham had been unable to come with them--when Chitterlow loomed up into the new world. He was wearing the suit of striped flannel and the straw hat that had followed Kipps' payment in advance for his course in elocution, his hands were deep in his side pockets and animated the corners of his jacket, and his attentive gaze at the passing loungers, the faint smile under his boldly drawn nose, showed him engaged in studying character--no doubt for some forthcoming play. "What HO!" said he, at the sight of Kipps, and swept off the straw hat with so ample a clutch of his great, flat hand that it suggested to Helen's startled mind a conjurer about to palm a half-penny. "'Ello, Chitt'low," said Kipps a little awkwardly and not saluting. Chitterlow hesitated. "Half a mo', my boy," he said, and arrested Kipps by extending a large hand over his chest. "Excuse me, my dear," he said, bowing like his Russian count by way of apology to Helen and with a smile that would have killed at a hundred yards. He affected a semi-confidential grouping of himself and Kipps while Helen stood in white amazement. "About that play," he said. "'Ow about it?" asked Kipps, acutely aware of Helen. "It's all right," said Chitterlow. "There's a strong smell of syndicate in the air, I may tell you--Strong." "That's aw right," said Kipps. "You needn't tell everybody," said Chitterlow with a transitory, confidential hand to his mouth, which pointed the application of the "everybody" just a trifle too strongly. "But I think it's coming off. However----. I mustn't detain you now. So long. You'll come 'round, eh?" "Right you are," said Kipps. "To-night?" "At eight." And then, and more in the manner of a Russian prince than any common count, Chitterlow bowed and withdrew. Just for a moment he allowed a conquering eye to challenge Helen's and noted her for a girl of quality.... There was a silence between our lovers for a space. "That," said Kipps with an allusive movement of the head, "was Chitterlow." "Is he--a friend of yours?" "In a way.... You see--I met 'im. Leastways 'e met me. Run into me with a bicycle, 'e did, and so we got talking together." He tried to appear at his ease. The young lady scrutinised his profile. "What is he?" "'E's a Nacter chap," said Kipps. "Leastways 'e writes plays." "And sells them?" "Partly." "Whom to?" "Different people. Shares he sells.... It's all right, reely--I meant to tell you about him before." Helen looked over her shoulder to catch a view of Chitterlow's retreating aspect. It did not compel her complete confidence. She turned to her lover and said in a tone of quiet authority, "You must tell me all about Chitterlow. Now." The explanation began.... The School Play came almost as a relief to Kipps. In the flusterment of going in he could almost forget for a time his Laocoon struggle to explain, and in the intervals he did his best to keep forgetting. But Helen, with a gentle insistence, resumed the explanation of Chitterlow as they returned towards Folkestone. Chitterlow was confoundedly difficult to explain. You could hardly imagine! There was an almost motherly anxiety in Helen's manner, blended with the resolution of a schoolmistress to get to the bottom of the affair. Kipps' ears were soon quite brightly red. "Have you seen one of his plays?" "'E's tole me about one." "But on the stage." "No. He 'asn't 'ad any on the stage yet. That's all coming...." "Promise me," she said in conclusion, "you won't do anything without consulting me." And of course Kipps promised. "Oo--no!" They went on their way in silence. "One can't know everybody," said Helen in general. "Of course," said Kipps; "in a sort of way it was him that helped me to my money." And he indicated in a confused manner the story of the advertisement. "I don't like to drop 'im all at once," he added. Helen was silent for a space, and when she spoke she went off at a tangent. "We shall live in London--soon," she remarked. "It's only while we are here." It was the first intimation she gave him of their post-nuptial prospects. "We shall have a nice little flat somewhere, not too far west, and there we shall build up a circle of our own." 2 All that declining summer Kipps was the pupil lover. He made an extraordinarily open secret of his desire for self-improvement; indeed Helen had to hint once or twice that his modest frankness was excessive, and all this new circle of friends did, each after his or her manner, everything that was possible to supplement Helen's efforts and help him to ease and skill in the more cultivated circles to which he had come. Coote was still the chief teacher, the tutor--there are so many little difficulties that a man may take to another man that he would not care to propound to the woman he loves--but they were all, so to speak, upon the staff. Even the freckled girl said to him once in a pleasant way, "You mustn't say "contre temps," you must say "contraytom,"" when he borrowed that expression from "Manners and Rules," and she tried at his own suggestion to give him clear ideas upon the subject of "as" and "has." A certain confusion between these words was becoming evident, the first fruits of a lesson from Chitterlow on the aspirate. Hitherto he had discarded that dangerous letter almost altogether, but now he would pull up at words beginning with "h" and draw a sawing breath--rather like a startled kitten--and then aspirate with vigour. Said Kipps one day, "_As_ 'e?--I should say, ah--Has 'e? Ye know I got a lot of difficulty over them two words, which is which?" "Well, 'as' is a conjunction and 'has' is a verb." "I know," said Kipps, "but when is 'has' a conjunction and when is 'as' a verb?" "Well," said the freckled girl, preparing to be very lucid. "It's _has_ when it means one has, meaning having, but if it isn't it's _as_. As for instance one says 'e--I mean _he_--He has. But one says 'as he has.'" "I see," said Kipps. "So I ought to say 'as 'e?'" "No, if you are asking a question you say _has_ 'e--I mean he--'as he?" She blushed quite brightly, but still clung to her air of lucidity. "I see," said Kipps. He was about to say something further, but he desisted. "I got it much clearer now. _Has_ 'e? _Has_ 'e as. Yes." "If you remember about having." "Oo I will," said Kipps. Miss Coote specialised in Kipps' artistic development. She had early found an opinion that he had considerable artistic sensibility, his remarks on her work had struck her as decidedly intelligent, and whenever he called around to see them she would show him some work of art, now an illustrated book, now perhaps a colour print of a Botticelli, now the Hundred Best Paintings, now "Academy Pictures," now a German art handbook and now some magazine of furniture and design. "I know you like these things," she used to say, and Kipps said, "Oo I _do_." He soon acquired a little armoury of appreciative sayings. When presently the Walshinghams took him up to the Arts and Crafts, his deportment was intelligent in the extreme. For a time he kept a wary silence and suddenly pitched upon a colour print. "That's rather nace," he said to Mrs. Walshingham. "That lill' thing. There." He always said things like that by preference to the mother rather than the daughter unless he was perfectly sure. He quite took to Mrs. Walshingham. He was impressed by her conspicuous tact and refinement; it seemed to him that the ladylike could go no further. She was always dressed with a delicate fussiness that was never disarranged and even a sort of faded quality about her hair and face and bearing and emotions contributed to her effect. Kipps was not a big man, and commonly he did not feel a big man, but with Mrs. Walshingham he always felt enormous and distended, as though he was a navvy who had taken some disagreeable poison which puffed him up inside his skin as a preliminary to bursting. He felt, too, as though he had been rolled in clay and his hair dressed with gum. And he felt that his voice was strident and his accent like somebody swinging a crowded pig's pail in a free and careless manner. All this increased and enforced his respect for her. Her hand, which flitted often and again to his hand and arm, was singularly well shaped and cool. "Arthur," she called him from the very beginning. She did not so much positively teach and tell him as tactfully guide and infect him. Her conversation was not so much didactic as exemplary. She would say, "I _do_ like people to do" so and so. She would tell him anecdotes of nice things done, of gentlemanly feats of graceful consideration; she would record her neat observations of people in trains and omnibuses; how, for example, a man had passed her change to the conductor, "quite a common man he looked," but he had lifted his hat. She stamped Kipps so deeply with the hat-raising habit that he would uncover if he found himself in the same railway ticket office with a lady had to stand ceremoniously until the difficulties of change drove him to an apologetic provisional oblique resumption of his headgear.... And robbing these things of any air of personal application, she threw about them an abundant talk about her two children--she called them her Twin Jewels quite frequently--about their gifts, their temperaments, their ambition, their need of opportunity. They needed opportunity, she would say, as other people needed air.... In his conversations with her Kipps always assumed, and she seemed to assume, that she was to join that home in London Helen foreshadowed, but he was surprised one day to gather that this was not to be the case. "It wouldn't do," said Helen, with decision. "We want to make a circle of our own." "But won't she be a bit lonely down here?" asked Kipps. "There's the Waces, and Mrs. Prebble and Mrs. Bindon Botting and--lots of people she knows." And Helen dismissed this possibility.... Young Walshingham's share in the educational syndicate was smaller. But he shone out when they went to London on that Arts and Crafts expedition. Then this rising man of affairs showed Kipps how to buy the more theatrical weeklies for consumption in the train, how to buy and what to buy in the way of cigarettes with gold tips and shilling cigars, and how to order hock for lunch and sparkling Moselle for dinner, how to calculate the fare of a hansom cab--penny a minute while he goes--how to look intelligently at an hotel tape, and how to sit still in a train like a thoughtful man instead of talking like a fool and giving yourself away. And he, too, would glance at the good time coming when they were to be in London for good and all. That prospect expanded and developed particulars. It presently took up a large part of Helen's conversation. Her conversations with Kipps were never of a grossly sentimental sort; there was a shyness of speech in that matter with both of them, but these new adumbrations were at least as interesting and not so directly disagreeable as the clear-cut intimations of personal defect that for a time had so greatly chastened Kipps' delight in her presence. The future presented itself with an almost perfect frankness as a joint campaign of Mrs. Walshingham's Twin Jewels upon the Great World, with Kipps in the capacity of baggage and supply. They would still be dreadfully poor, of course--this amazed Kipps, but he said nothing--until "Brudderkins" began to succeed, but if they were clever and lucky they might do a great deal. When Helen spoke of London a brooding look, as of one who contemplates a distant country, came into her eyes. Already it seemed they had the nucleus of a set. Brudderkins was a member of the Theatrical Judges, an excellent and influential little club of journalists and literary people, and he knew Shimer and Stargate and Whiffle, of the "Red Dragon," and besides these were the Revels. They knew the Revels quite well. Sidney Revel before his rapid rise to prominence as a writer of epigrammatic essays that were quite above the ordinary public, had been an assistant master at one of the best Folkestone schools, Brudderkins had brought him home to tea several times, and it was he had first suggested Helen should try and write. "It's perfectly easy," Sidney had said. He had been writing occasional things for the evening papers, and for the weekly reviews even at that time. Then he had gone up to London and had almost unavoidedly become a dramatic critic. Those brilliant essays had followed, and then "Red Hearts a-Beating," the romance that had made him. It was a tale of spirited adventure, full of youth and beauty and na ve passion and generous devotion, bold, as the _Bookman_ said, and frank in places, but never in the slightest degree morbid. He had met and married an American widow with quite a lot of money, and they had made a very distinct place for themselves, Kipps learnt, in the literary and artistic society of London. Helen seemed to dwell on the Revels a great deal; it was her exemplary story, and when she spoke of Sidney--she often called him Sidney--she would become thoughtful. She spoke most of him naturally because she had still to meet Mrs. Revel.... Certainly they would be in the world in no time, even if the distant connection with the Beaupres family came to nothing. Kipps gathered that with his marriage and the movement to London they were to undergo that subtle change of name Coote had first adumbrated. They were to become "Cuyps," Mr. and Mrs. Cuyps. Or, was it Cuyp? "It'll be rum at first," said Kipps. "I dessay I shall soon get into it."... So in their several ways they all contributed to enlarge and refine and exercise the intelligence of Kipps. And behind all these other influences, and, as it were, presiding over and correcting these influences, was Kipps' nearest friend, Coote, a sort of master of the ceremonies. You figure his face, blowing slightly with solicitude, his slate coloured, projecting but not unkindly eye intent upon our hero. The thing he thought was going off admirably. He studied Kipps' character immensely. He would discuss him with his sister, with Mrs. Walshingham, with the freckled girl, with anyone who would stand it. "He is an interesting character," he would say, "likable--a sort of gentleman by instinct. He takes to all these things. He improves every day. He'll soon get Sang Froid. We took him up just in time. He wants now--well----. Next year, perhaps, if there is a good Extension Literature course, he might go in for it. He wants to go in for something like that." "He's going in for his bicycle now," said Mrs. Walshingham. "That's all right for summer," said Coote, "but he wants to go in for some serious, intellectual interest, something to take him out of himself a little more. Savoir Faire and self-forgetfulness is more than half the secret of Sang Froid." 3 The world as Coote presented it was in part an endorsement, in part an amplification and in part a rectification of the world of Kipps, the world that derived from the old couple in New Romney and had been developed in the Emporium; the world, in fact, of common British life. There was the same subtle sense of social graduation that had moved Mrs. Kipps to prohibit intercourse with labourers' children and the same dread of anything "common" that had kept the personal quality of Mr. Shalford's establishment so high. But now a certain disagreeable doubt about Kipps' own position was removed and he stood with Coote inside the sphere of gentlemen assured. Within the sphere of gentlemen there are distinctions of rank indeed, but none of class; there are the Big People and the modest, refined, gentlemanly little people like Coote, who may even dabble in the professions and counterless trades; there are lords and magnificences, and there are gentle folk who have to manage, but they can all call on one another, they preserve a general equality of deportment throughout, they constitute that great state within the state, Society, or at any rate they make believe they do. "But reely," said the Pupil, "not what you call being in Society?" "Yes," said Coote. "Of course, down here one doesn't see much of it, but there's local society. It has the same rules." "Calling and all that?" "Precisely," said Coote. Kipps thought, whistled a bar, and suddenly broached a question of conscience. "I often wonder," he said, "whether I oughtn't to dress for dinner--when I'm alone 'ere." Coote protruded his lips and reflected. "Not full dress," he adjudicated; "that would be a little excessive. But you should _change_, you know. Put on a mess jacket and that sort of thing--easy dress. That is what _I_ should do, certainly, if I wasn't in harness--and poor." He coughed modestly and patted his hair behind. And after that the washing bill of Kipps quadrupled, and he was to be seen at times by the bandstand with his light summer overcoat unbuttoned to give a glimpse of his nice white tie. He and Coote would be smoking the gold-tipped cigarettes young Walshingham had prescribed as _chic_, and appreciating the music highly. "That's--puff--a very nice bit," Kipps would say, or better, "That's nace." And at the first grunts of the loyal anthem up they stood with religiously uplifted hats. Whatever else you might call them, you could never call them disloyal. The boundary of Society was admittedly very close to Coote and Kipps, and a leading solicitude of the true gentleman was to detect clearly those "beneath" him, and to behave towards them in a proper spirit. "It's jest there it's so 'ard for me," said Kipps. He had to cultivate a certain "distance," to acquire altogether the art of checking the presumption of bounders and old friends. It was difficult, Coote admitted. "That's what, so harkward--I mean awkward." "I got mixed up with this lot 'ere," said Kipps. "You could give them a hint," said Coote. "'Ow?" "Oh!--the occasion will suggest something." The occasion came one early closing night when Kipps was sitting in a canopy chair near the bandstand, with his summer overcoat fully open and a new Gibus pulled slightly forward over his brow, waiting for Coote. They were to hear the band for an hour and then go down to assist Miss Coote and the freckled girl in trying over some of Beethoven's duets, if they remembered them, that is, sufficiently well. And as Kipps lounged back in his chair and occupied his mind with his favourite amusement on such evenings, which consisted chiefly in supposing that everyone about him was wondering who he was, came a rude rap at the canvas back and the voice of Pierce. "It's nice to be a gentleman," said Pierce, and swung a penny chair into position while Buggins appeared smiling agreeably on the other side and leant upon his stick. _He was smoking a common briar pipe!_ Two real ladies, very fashionably dressed and sitting close at hand, glanced quickly at Pierce, and then away again, and it was evident _their_ wonder was at an end. "_He's_ all right," said Buggins, removing his pipe and surveying Kipps. "'Ello, Buggins!" said Kipps, not too cordially. "'Ow goes it?" "All right. Holiday's next week. If you don't look out, Kipps, I shall be on the Continong before you. Eh?" "You going t' Boologne?" "Ra-ther. Parley vous Francey. You bet." "_I_ shall 'ave a bit of a run over there one of these days," said Kipps. There came a pause. Pierce applied the top of his stick to his mouth for a space and regarded Kipps. Then he glanced at the people about them. "I say, Kipps," he said in a distinct, loud voice, "see 'er Ladyship lately?" Kipps perceived the audience was to be impressed, but he responded half-heartedly, "No, I 'aven't," he said. "She was along of Sir William the other night," said Pierce, still loud and clear, "and she asked to be remembered to you." It seemed to Kipps that one of the two ladies smiled faintly and said something to the other, and then certainly they glanced at Pierce. Kipps flushed scarlet. "_Did_ she?" he answered. Buggins laughed good-humouredly over his pipe. "Sir William suffers a lot from his gout," Pierce continued unabashed. (Buggins much amused with his pipe between his teeth.) Kipps became aware of Coote at hand. Coote nodded rather distantly to Pierce. "Hope I haven't kept you waiting, Kipps," he said. "I kep' a chair for you," said Kipps and removed a guardian foot. "But you've got your friends," said Coote. "Oh! _we_ don't mind," said Pierce cordially, "the more the merrier," and, "why don't you get a chair, Buggins?" Buggins shook his head in a sort of aside to Pierce and Coote coughed behind his hand. "Been kep' late at business?" asked Pierce. Coote turned quite pale and pretended not to hear. His eyes sought in space for a time and with a convulsive movement he recognised a distant acquaintance and raised his hat. Pierce had also become a little pale. He addressed himself to Kipps in an undertone. "Mr. Coote, isn't he?" he asked. Coote addressed himself to Kipps directly and exclusively. His manner had the calm of extreme tension. "I'm rather late," he said. "I think we ought almost to be going on _now_." Kipps stood up. "That's all right," he said. "Which way are you going?" said Pierce, standing also, and brushing some crumbs of cigarette ash from his sleeve. For a moment Coote was breathless. "Thank you," he said, and gasped. Then he delivered the necessary blow; "I don't think we're in need of your society, you know," and turned away. Kipps found himself falling over chairs and things in the wake of Coote, and then they were clear of the crowd. For a space Coote said nothing; then he remarked abruptly and quite angrily for him, "I think that was _awful_ Cheek!" Kipps made no reply.... The whole thing was an interesting little object lesson in distance, and it stuck in the front of Kipps' mind for a long time. He had particularly vivid the face of Pierce, with an expression between astonishment and anger. He felt as though he had struck Pierce in the face under circumstances that gave Pierce no power to reply. He did not attend very much to the duets and even forgot at the end of one of them to say how perfectly lovely it was. 4 But you must not imagine that the national ideal of a gentleman, as Coote developed it, was all a matter of deportment and selectness, a mere isolation from debasing associations. There is a Serious Side, a deeper aspect of the true, True Gentleman. The True Gentleman does not wear his heart on his sleeve. He is a polished surface above deeps. For example, he is deeply religious, as Coote was, as Mrs. Walshingham was, but outside the walls of a church it never appears, except perhaps now and then in a pause, in a profound look, in a sudden avoidance. In quite a little while Kipps also had learnt the pause, the profound look, the sudden avoidance, that final refinement of spirituality, impressionistic piety. And the True Gentleman is patriotic also. When one saw Coote lifting his hat to the National Anthem, then perhaps one got a glimpse of what patriotic emotions, what worship, the polish of a gentleman may hide. Or singing out his deep notes against the Hosts of Midian, in the St. Stylites choir; then indeed you plumbed his spiritual side. Christian, dost thou heed them, On the holy ground, How the hosts of Mid-i-an, Prowl and prowl around! Christian, up and smai-it them.... But these were but gleams. For the rest, Religion, Nationality, Passion, Money, Politics; much more so those cardinal issues, Birth and Death, the True Gentleman skirted about, and became facially rigid towards and ceased to speak and panted and blew. "One doesn't talk of that sort of thing," Coote would say with a gesture of the knuckly hand. "O' course," Kipps would reply, with an equal significance. Profundities. Deep as it were, blowing to deep. One does not talk, but on the other hand one is punctilious to do. Actions speak. Kipps--in spite of the fact that the Walshinghams were more than a little lax--Kipps, who had formerly flitted Sunday after Sunday from one Folkestone church to another, had now a sitting of his own, paid for duly at Saint Stylites. There he was to be seen, always at the surplice evening service, and sometimes of a morning, dressed with a sober precision, and with an eye on Coote in the chancel. No difficulties now about finding the place in his book. He became a communicant again--he had lapsed soon after his confirmation when the young lady in the costume-room, who was his adopted sister, left the Emporium--and he would sometimes go around to the Vestry for Coote after the service. One evening he was introduced to the Hon. and Rev. Densemore. He was much too confused to say anything, and the noble cleric had nothing to say, but indisputably they were introduced.... No! you must not imagine our national ideal of a gentleman is without its "serious side," without even its stern and uncompromising side. The imagination no doubt refuses to see Coote displaying extraordinary refinements of courage upon the stricken field, but in the walks of peace there is sometimes sore need of sternness. Charitable as one may be, one must admit there are people who _do_ things, impossible things; people who place themselves "out of it" in countless ways; people, moreover, who are by a sort of predestination out of it from the beginning, and against these Society has invented a terrible protection for its Cootery, the Cut. The cut is no joke for anyone. It is excommunication. You may be cut by an individual, you may be cut by a set or you may be--and this is so tragic that beautiful romances have been written about it--"Cut by the County." One figures Coote discharging this last duty and cutting somebody--Coote, erect and pale, never speaking, going past with eyes of pitiless slate, lower jaw protruding a little, face pursed up and cold and stiff.... It never dawned upon Kipps that he would one day have to face this terrible front, to be to Coote not only as one dead, but as one gone more than a stage or so in decay, cut and passed, banned and outcast for ever. Yet so it was to be! One cannot hide any longer that all this fine progress of Kipps is doomed to end in collapse. So far indeed you have seen him ascend. You have seen him becoming more refined and careful day by day, more carefully dressed, less clumsy in the ways and methods of social life. You have seen the gulf widening between himself and his former low associates. I have brought you at last to the vision of him, faultlessly dressed and posed, in an atmosphere of candlelight and chanting, in his own sitting in one of the most fashionable churches in Folkestone.... All the time I have refrained from the lightest touch upon the tragic note that must now creep into my tale. Yet the net of his low connections has been about his feet, and moreover there was something interwoven in his being.... CHAPTER VI DISCORDS 1 One day Kipps set out upon his newly-mastered bicycle to New Romney to break the news of his engagement to his Uncle and Aunt--this time positively. He was now a finished cyclist, but as yet an unseasoned one; the southwest wind, even in its summer guise, as one meets it in the Marsh, is the equivalent of a reasonable hill, and ever and again he got off and refreshed himself by a spell of walking. He was walking just outside New Romney preparatory to his triumphal entry (one hand off) when abruptly he came upon Ann Pornick. It chanced he was thinking about her at the time. He had been thinking curious things; whether, after all, the atmosphere of New Romney and the Marsh had not some difference, some faint impalpable quality that was missing in the great and fashionable world of Folkestone behind there on the hill. Here there was a homeliness, a familiarity. He had noted as he passed that old Mr. Cliffordown's gate had been mended with a fresh piece of

abrupt-

How many times the word 'abrupt-' appears in the text?

was a touch of motherliness in her feelings towards him. But his upbringing and his associations had been, she diagnosed, "awful." At New Romney she glanced but little; that was remote. But in her inventory--she went over him as one might go over a newly taken house, with impartial thoroughness--she discovered more proximate influences, surprising intimations of nocturnal "sing-songs"--she pictured it as almost shocking that Kipps should sing to the banjo--much low-grade wisdom treasured from a person called Buggins--"Who _is_ Buggins?" said Helen--vague figures of indisputable vulgarity, Pierce and Carshot, and more particularly, a very terrible social phenomenon, Chitterlow. Chitterlow blazed upon them with unheralded oppressive brilliance the first time they were abroad together. They were going along the front of the Leas to see a school play in Sandgate--at the last moment Mrs. Walshingham had been unable to come with them--when Chitterlow loomed up into the new world. He was wearing the suit of striped flannel and the straw hat that had followed Kipps' payment in advance for his course in elocution, his hands were deep in his side pockets and animated the corners of his jacket, and his attentive gaze at the passing loungers, the faint smile under his boldly drawn nose, showed him engaged in studying character--no doubt for some forthcoming play. "What HO!" said he, at the sight of Kipps, and swept off the straw hat with so ample a clutch of his great, flat hand that it suggested to Helen's startled mind a conjurer about to palm a half-penny. "'Ello, Chitt'low," said Kipps a little awkwardly and not saluting. Chitterlow hesitated. "Half a mo', my boy," he said, and arrested Kipps by extending a large hand over his chest. "Excuse me, my dear," he said, bowing like his Russian count by way of apology to Helen and with a smile that would have killed at a hundred yards. He affected a semi-confidential grouping of himself and Kipps while Helen stood in white amazement. "About that play," he said. "'Ow about it?" asked Kipps, acutely aware of Helen. "It's all right," said Chitterlow. "There's a strong smell of syndicate in the air, I may tell you--Strong." "That's aw right," said Kipps. "You needn't tell everybody," said Chitterlow with a transitory, confidential hand to his mouth, which pointed the application of the "everybody" just a trifle too strongly. "But I think it's coming off. However----. I mustn't detain you now. So long. You'll come 'round, eh?" "Right you are," said Kipps. "To-night?" "At eight." And then, and more in the manner of a Russian prince than any common count, Chitterlow bowed and withdrew. Just for a moment he allowed a conquering eye to challenge Helen's and noted her for a girl of quality.... There was a silence between our lovers for a space. "That," said Kipps with an allusive movement of the head, "was Chitterlow." "Is he--a friend of yours?" "In a way.... You see--I met 'im. Leastways 'e met me. Run into me with a bicycle, 'e did, and so we got talking together." He tried to appear at his ease. The young lady scrutinised his profile. "What is he?" "'E's a Nacter chap," said Kipps. "Leastways 'e writes plays." "And sells them?" "Partly." "Whom to?" "Different people. Shares he sells.... It's all right, reely--I meant to tell you about him before." Helen looked over her shoulder to catch a view of Chitterlow's retreating aspect. It did not compel her complete confidence. She turned to her lover and said in a tone of quiet authority, "You must tell me all about Chitterlow. Now." The explanation began.... The School Play came almost as a relief to Kipps. In the flusterment of going in he could almost forget for a time his Laocoon struggle to explain, and in the intervals he did his best to keep forgetting. But Helen, with a gentle insistence, resumed the explanation of Chitterlow as they returned towards Folkestone. Chitterlow was confoundedly difficult to explain. You could hardly imagine! There was an almost motherly anxiety in Helen's manner, blended with the resolution of a schoolmistress to get to the bottom of the affair. Kipps' ears were soon quite brightly red. "Have you seen one of his plays?" "'E's tole me about one." "But on the stage." "No. He 'asn't 'ad any on the stage yet. That's all coming...." "Promise me," she said in conclusion, "you won't do anything without consulting me." And of course Kipps promised. "Oo--no!" They went on their way in silence. "One can't know everybody," said Helen in general. "Of course," said Kipps; "in a sort of way it was him that helped me to my money." And he indicated in a confused manner the story of the advertisement. "I don't like to drop 'im all at once," he added. Helen was silent for a space, and when she spoke she went off at a tangent. "We shall live in London--soon," she remarked. "It's only while we are here." It was the first intimation she gave him of their post-nuptial prospects. "We shall have a nice little flat somewhere, not too far west, and there we shall build up a circle of our own." 2 All that declining summer Kipps was the pupil lover. He made an extraordinarily open secret of his desire for self-improvement; indeed Helen had to hint once or twice that his modest frankness was excessive, and all this new circle of friends did, each after his or her manner, everything that was possible to supplement Helen's efforts and help him to ease and skill in the more cultivated circles to which he had come. Coote was still the chief teacher, the tutor--there are so many little difficulties that a man may take to another man that he would not care to propound to the woman he loves--but they were all, so to speak, upon the staff. Even the freckled girl said to him once in a pleasant way, "You mustn't say "contre temps," you must say "contraytom,"" when he borrowed that expression from "Manners and Rules," and she tried at his own suggestion to give him clear ideas upon the subject of "as" and "has." A certain confusion between these words was becoming evident, the first fruits of a lesson from Chitterlow on the aspirate. Hitherto he had discarded that dangerous letter almost altogether, but now he would pull up at words beginning with "h" and draw a sawing breath--rather like a startled kitten--and then aspirate with vigour. Said Kipps one day, "_As_ 'e?--I should say, ah--Has 'e? Ye know I got a lot of difficulty over them two words, which is which?" "Well, 'as' is a conjunction and 'has' is a verb." "I know," said Kipps, "but when is 'has' a conjunction and when is 'as' a verb?" "Well," said the freckled girl, preparing to be very lucid. "It's _has_ when it means one has, meaning having, but if it isn't it's _as_. As for instance one says 'e--I mean _he_--He has. But one says 'as he has.'" "I see," said Kipps. "So I ought to say 'as 'e?'" "No, if you are asking a question you say _has_ 'e--I mean he--'as he?" She blushed quite brightly, but still clung to her air of lucidity. "I see," said Kipps. He was about to say something further, but he desisted. "I got it much clearer now. _Has_ 'e? _Has_ 'e as. Yes." "If you remember about having." "Oo I will," said Kipps. Miss Coote specialised in Kipps' artistic development. She had early found an opinion that he had considerable artistic sensibility, his remarks on her work had struck her as decidedly intelligent, and whenever he called around to see them she would show him some work of art, now an illustrated book, now perhaps a colour print of a Botticelli, now the Hundred Best Paintings, now "Academy Pictures," now a German art handbook and now some magazine of furniture and design. "I know you like these things," she used to say, and Kipps said, "Oo I _do_." He soon acquired a little armoury of appreciative sayings. When presently the Walshinghams took him up to the Arts and Crafts, his deportment was intelligent in the extreme. For a time he kept a wary silence and suddenly pitched upon a colour print. "That's rather nace," he said to Mrs. Walshingham. "That lill' thing. There." He always said things like that by preference to the mother rather than the daughter unless he was perfectly sure. He quite took to Mrs. Walshingham. He was impressed by her conspicuous tact and refinement; it seemed to him that the ladylike could go no further. She was always dressed with a delicate fussiness that was never disarranged and even a sort of faded quality about her hair and face and bearing and emotions contributed to her effect. Kipps was not a big man, and commonly he did not feel a big man, but with Mrs. Walshingham he always felt enormous and distended, as though he was a navvy who had taken some disagreeable poison which puffed him up inside his skin as a preliminary to bursting. He felt, too, as though he had been rolled in clay and his hair dressed with gum. And he felt that his voice was strident and his accent like somebody swinging a crowded pig's pail in a free and careless manner. All this increased and enforced his respect for her. Her hand, which flitted often and again to his hand and arm, was singularly well shaped and cool. "Arthur," she called him from the very beginning. She did not so much positively teach and tell him as tactfully guide and infect him. Her conversation was not so much didactic as exemplary. She would say, "I _do_ like people to do" so and so. She would tell him anecdotes of nice things done, of gentlemanly feats of graceful consideration; she would record her neat observations of people in trains and omnibuses; how, for example, a man had passed her change to the conductor, "quite a common man he looked," but he had lifted his hat. She stamped Kipps so deeply with the hat-raising habit that he would uncover if he found himself in the same railway ticket office with a lady had to stand ceremoniously until the difficulties of change drove him to an apologetic provisional oblique resumption of his headgear.... And robbing these things of any air of personal application, she threw about them an abundant talk about her two children--she called them her Twin Jewels quite frequently--about their gifts, their temperaments, their ambition, their need of opportunity. They needed opportunity, she would say, as other people needed air.... In his conversations with her Kipps always assumed, and she seemed to assume, that she was to join that home in London Helen foreshadowed, but he was surprised one day to gather that this was not to be the case. "It wouldn't do," said Helen, with decision. "We want to make a circle of our own." "But won't she be a bit lonely down here?" asked Kipps. "There's the Waces, and Mrs. Prebble and Mrs. Bindon Botting and--lots of people she knows." And Helen dismissed this possibility.... Young Walshingham's share in the educational syndicate was smaller. But he shone out when they went to London on that Arts and Crafts expedition. Then this rising man of affairs showed Kipps how to buy the more theatrical weeklies for consumption in the train, how to buy and what to buy in the way of cigarettes with gold tips and shilling cigars, and how to order hock for lunch and sparkling Moselle for dinner, how to calculate the fare of a hansom cab--penny a minute while he goes--how to look intelligently at an hotel tape, and how to sit still in a train like a thoughtful man instead of talking like a fool and giving yourself away. And he, too, would glance at the good time coming when they were to be in London for good and all. That prospect expanded and developed particulars. It presently took up a large part of Helen's conversation. Her conversations with Kipps were never of a grossly sentimental sort; there was a shyness of speech in that matter with both of them, but these new adumbrations were at least as interesting and not so directly disagreeable as the clear-cut intimations of personal defect that for a time had so greatly chastened Kipps' delight in her presence. The future presented itself with an almost perfect frankness as a joint campaign of Mrs. Walshingham's Twin Jewels upon the Great World, with Kipps in the capacity of baggage and supply. They would still be dreadfully poor, of course--this amazed Kipps, but he said nothing--until "Brudderkins" began to succeed, but if they were clever and lucky they might do a great deal. When Helen spoke of London a brooding look, as of one who contemplates a distant country, came into her eyes. Already it seemed they had the nucleus of a set. Brudderkins was a member of the Theatrical Judges, an excellent and influential little club of journalists and literary people, and he knew Shimer and Stargate and Whiffle, of the "Red Dragon," and besides these were the Revels. They knew the Revels quite well. Sidney Revel before his rapid rise to prominence as a writer of epigrammatic essays that were quite above the ordinary public, had been an assistant master at one of the best Folkestone schools, Brudderkins had brought him home to tea several times, and it was he had first suggested Helen should try and write. "It's perfectly easy," Sidney had said. He had been writing occasional things for the evening papers, and for the weekly reviews even at that time. Then he had gone up to London and had almost unavoidedly become a dramatic critic. Those brilliant essays had followed, and then "Red Hearts a-Beating," the romance that had made him. It was a tale of spirited adventure, full of youth and beauty and na ve passion and generous devotion, bold, as the _Bookman_ said, and frank in places, but never in the slightest degree morbid. He had met and married an American widow with quite a lot of money, and they had made a very distinct place for themselves, Kipps learnt, in the literary and artistic society of London. Helen seemed to dwell on the Revels a great deal; it was her exemplary story, and when she spoke of Sidney--she often called him Sidney--she would become thoughtful. She spoke most of him naturally because she had still to meet Mrs. Revel.... Certainly they would be in the world in no time, even if the distant connection with the Beaupres family came to nothing. Kipps gathered that with his marriage and the movement to London they were to undergo that subtle change of name Coote had first adumbrated. They were to become "Cuyps," Mr. and Mrs. Cuyps. Or, was it Cuyp? "It'll be rum at first," said Kipps. "I dessay I shall soon get into it."... So in their several ways they all contributed to enlarge and refine and exercise the intelligence of Kipps. And behind all these other influences, and, as it were, presiding over and correcting these influences, was Kipps' nearest friend, Coote, a sort of master of the ceremonies. You figure his face, blowing slightly with solicitude, his slate coloured, projecting but not unkindly eye intent upon our hero. The thing he thought was going off admirably. He studied Kipps' character immensely. He would discuss him with his sister, with Mrs. Walshingham, with the freckled girl, with anyone who would stand it. "He is an interesting character," he would say, "likable--a sort of gentleman by instinct. He takes to all these things. He improves every day. He'll soon get Sang Froid. We took him up just in time. He wants now--well----. Next year, perhaps, if there is a good Extension Literature course, he might go in for it. He wants to go in for something like that." "He's going in for his bicycle now," said Mrs. Walshingham. "That's all right for summer," said Coote, "but he wants to go in for some serious, intellectual interest, something to take him out of himself a little more. Savoir Faire and self-forgetfulness is more than half the secret of Sang Froid." 3 The world as Coote presented it was in part an endorsement, in part an amplification and in part a rectification of the world of Kipps, the world that derived from the old couple in New Romney and had been developed in the Emporium; the world, in fact, of common British life. There was the same subtle sense of social graduation that had moved Mrs. Kipps to prohibit intercourse with labourers' children and the same dread of anything "common" that had kept the personal quality of Mr. Shalford's establishment so high. But now a certain disagreeable doubt about Kipps' own position was removed and he stood with Coote inside the sphere of gentlemen assured. Within the sphere of gentlemen there are distinctions of rank indeed, but none of class; there are the Big People and the modest, refined, gentlemanly little people like Coote, who may even dabble in the professions and counterless trades; there are lords and magnificences, and there are gentle folk who have to manage, but they can all call on one another, they preserve a general equality of deportment throughout, they constitute that great state within the state, Society, or at any rate they make believe they do. "But reely," said the Pupil, "not what you call being in Society?" "Yes," said Coote. "Of course, down here one doesn't see much of it, but there's local society. It has the same rules." "Calling and all that?" "Precisely," said Coote. Kipps thought, whistled a bar, and suddenly broached a question of conscience. "I often wonder," he said, "whether I oughtn't to dress for dinner--when I'm alone 'ere." Coote protruded his lips and reflected. "Not full dress," he adjudicated; "that would be a little excessive. But you should _change_, you know. Put on a mess jacket and that sort of thing--easy dress. That is what _I_ should do, certainly, if I wasn't in harness--and poor." He coughed modestly and patted his hair behind. And after that the washing bill of Kipps quadrupled, and he was to be seen at times by the bandstand with his light summer overcoat unbuttoned to give a glimpse of his nice white tie. He and Coote would be smoking the gold-tipped cigarettes young Walshingham had prescribed as _chic_, and appreciating the music highly. "That's--puff--a very nice bit," Kipps would say, or better, "That's nace." And at the first grunts of the loyal anthem up they stood with religiously uplifted hats. Whatever else you might call them, you could never call them disloyal. The boundary of Society was admittedly very close to Coote and Kipps, and a leading solicitude of the true gentleman was to detect clearly those "beneath" him, and to behave towards them in a proper spirit. "It's jest there it's so 'ard for me," said Kipps. He had to cultivate a certain "distance," to acquire altogether the art of checking the presumption of bounders and old friends. It was difficult, Coote admitted. "That's what, so harkward--I mean awkward." "I got mixed up with this lot 'ere," said Kipps. "You could give them a hint," said Coote. "'Ow?" "Oh!--the occasion will suggest something." The occasion came one early closing night when Kipps was sitting in a canopy chair near the bandstand, with his summer overcoat fully open and a new Gibus pulled slightly forward over his brow, waiting for Coote. They were to hear the band for an hour and then go down to assist Miss Coote and the freckled girl in trying over some of Beethoven's duets, if they remembered them, that is, sufficiently well. And as Kipps lounged back in his chair and occupied his mind with his favourite amusement on such evenings, which consisted chiefly in supposing that everyone about him was wondering who he was, came a rude rap at the canvas back and the voice of Pierce. "It's nice to be a gentleman," said Pierce, and swung a penny chair into position while Buggins appeared smiling agreeably on the other side and leant upon his stick. _He was smoking a common briar pipe!_ Two real ladies, very fashionably dressed and sitting close at hand, glanced quickly at Pierce, and then away again, and it was evident _their_ wonder was at an end. "_He's_ all right," said Buggins, removing his pipe and surveying Kipps. "'Ello, Buggins!" said Kipps, not too cordially. "'Ow goes it?" "All right. Holiday's next week. If you don't look out, Kipps, I shall be on the Continong before you. Eh?" "You going t' Boologne?" "Ra-ther. Parley vous Francey. You bet." "_I_ shall 'ave a bit of a run over there one of these days," said Kipps. There came a pause. Pierce applied the top of his stick to his mouth for a space and regarded Kipps. Then he glanced at the people about them. "I say, Kipps," he said in a distinct, loud voice, "see 'er Ladyship lately?" Kipps perceived the audience was to be impressed, but he responded half-heartedly, "No, I 'aven't," he said. "She was along of Sir William the other night," said Pierce, still loud and clear, "and she asked to be remembered to you." It seemed to Kipps that one of the two ladies smiled faintly and said something to the other, and then certainly they glanced at Pierce. Kipps flushed scarlet. "_Did_ she?" he answered. Buggins laughed good-humouredly over his pipe. "Sir William suffers a lot from his gout," Pierce continued unabashed. (Buggins much amused with his pipe between his teeth.) Kipps became aware of Coote at hand. Coote nodded rather distantly to Pierce. "Hope I haven't kept you waiting, Kipps," he said. "I kep' a chair for you," said Kipps and removed a guardian foot. "But you've got your friends," said Coote. "Oh! _we_ don't mind," said Pierce cordially, "the more the merrier," and, "why don't you get a chair, Buggins?" Buggins shook his head in a sort of aside to Pierce and Coote coughed behind his hand. "Been kep' late at business?" asked Pierce. Coote turned quite pale and pretended not to hear. His eyes sought in space for a time and with a convulsive movement he recognised a distant acquaintance and raised his hat. Pierce had also become a little pale. He addressed himself to Kipps in an undertone. "Mr. Coote, isn't he?" he asked. Coote addressed himself to Kipps directly and exclusively. His manner had the calm of extreme tension. "I'm rather late," he said. "I think we ought almost to be going on _now_." Kipps stood up. "That's all right," he said. "Which way are you going?" said Pierce, standing also, and brushing some crumbs of cigarette ash from his sleeve. For a moment Coote was breathless. "Thank you," he said, and gasped. Then he delivered the necessary blow; "I don't think we're in need of your society, you know," and turned away. Kipps found himself falling over chairs and things in the wake of Coote, and then they were clear of the crowd. For a space Coote said nothing; then he remarked abruptly and quite angrily for him, "I think that was _awful_ Cheek!" Kipps made no reply.... The whole thing was an interesting little object lesson in distance, and it stuck in the front of Kipps' mind for a long time. He had particularly vivid the face of Pierce, with an expression between astonishment and anger. He felt as though he had struck Pierce in the face under circumstances that gave Pierce no power to reply. He did not attend very much to the duets and even forgot at the end of one of them to say how perfectly lovely it was. 4 But you must not imagine that the national ideal of a gentleman, as Coote developed it, was all a matter of deportment and selectness, a mere isolation from debasing associations. There is a Serious Side, a deeper aspect of the true, True Gentleman. The True Gentleman does not wear his heart on his sleeve. He is a polished surface above deeps. For example, he is deeply religious, as Coote was, as Mrs. Walshingham was, but outside the walls of a church it never appears, except perhaps now and then in a pause, in a profound look, in a sudden avoidance. In quite a little while Kipps also had learnt the pause, the profound look, the sudden avoidance, that final refinement of spirituality, impressionistic piety. And the True Gentleman is patriotic also. When one saw Coote lifting his hat to the National Anthem, then perhaps one got a glimpse of what patriotic emotions, what worship, the polish of a gentleman may hide. Or singing out his deep notes against the Hosts of Midian, in the St. Stylites choir; then indeed you plumbed his spiritual side. Christian, dost thou heed them, On the holy ground, How the hosts of Mid-i-an, Prowl and prowl around! Christian, up and smai-it them.... But these were but gleams. For the rest, Religion, Nationality, Passion, Money, Politics; much more so those cardinal issues, Birth and Death, the True Gentleman skirted about, and became facially rigid towards and ceased to speak and panted and blew. "One doesn't talk of that sort of thing," Coote would say with a gesture of the knuckly hand. "O' course," Kipps would reply, with an equal significance. Profundities. Deep as it were, blowing to deep. One does not talk, but on the other hand one is punctilious to do. Actions speak. Kipps--in spite of the fact that the Walshinghams were more than a little lax--Kipps, who had formerly flitted Sunday after Sunday from one Folkestone church to another, had now a sitting of his own, paid for duly at Saint Stylites. There he was to be seen, always at the surplice evening service, and sometimes of a morning, dressed with a sober precision, and with an eye on Coote in the chancel. No difficulties now about finding the place in his book. He became a communicant again--he had lapsed soon after his confirmation when the young lady in the costume-room, who was his adopted sister, left the Emporium--and he would sometimes go around to the Vestry for Coote after the service. One evening he was introduced to the Hon. and Rev. Densemore. He was much too confused to say anything, and the noble cleric had nothing to say, but indisputably they were introduced.... No! you must not imagine our national ideal of a gentleman is without its "serious side," without even its stern and uncompromising side. The imagination no doubt refuses to see Coote displaying extraordinary refinements of courage upon the stricken field, but in the walks of peace there is sometimes sore need of sternness. Charitable as one may be, one must admit there are people who _do_ things, impossible things; people who place themselves "out of it" in countless ways; people, moreover, who are by a sort of predestination out of it from the beginning, and against these Society has invented a terrible protection for its Cootery, the Cut. The cut is no joke for anyone. It is excommunication. You may be cut by an individual, you may be cut by a set or you may be--and this is so tragic that beautiful romances have been written about it--"Cut by the County." One figures Coote discharging this last duty and cutting somebody--Coote, erect and pale, never speaking, going past with eyes of pitiless slate, lower jaw protruding a little, face pursed up and cold and stiff.... It never dawned upon Kipps that he would one day have to face this terrible front, to be to Coote not only as one dead, but as one gone more than a stage or so in decay, cut and passed, banned and outcast for ever. Yet so it was to be! One cannot hide any longer that all this fine progress of Kipps is doomed to end in collapse. So far indeed you have seen him ascend. You have seen him becoming more refined and careful day by day, more carefully dressed, less clumsy in the ways and methods of social life. You have seen the gulf widening between himself and his former low associates. I have brought you at last to the vision of him, faultlessly dressed and posed, in an atmosphere of candlelight and chanting, in his own sitting in one of the most fashionable churches in Folkestone.... All the time I have refrained from the lightest touch upon the tragic note that must now creep into my tale. Yet the net of his low connections has been about his feet, and moreover there was something interwoven in his being.... CHAPTER VI DISCORDS 1 One day Kipps set out upon his newly-mastered bicycle to New Romney to break the news of his engagement to his Uncle and Aunt--this time positively. He was now a finished cyclist, but as yet an unseasoned one; the southwest wind, even in its summer guise, as one meets it in the Marsh, is the equivalent of a reasonable hill, and ever and again he got off and refreshed himself by a spell of walking. He was walking just outside New Romney preparatory to his triumphal entry (one hand off) when abruptly he came upon Ann Pornick. It chanced he was thinking about her at the time. He had been thinking curious things; whether, after all, the atmosphere of New Romney and the Marsh had not some difference, some faint impalpable quality that was missing in the great and fashionable world of Folkestone behind there on the hill. Here there was a homeliness, a familiarity. He had noted as he passed that old Mr. Cliffordown's gate had been mended with a fresh piece of

glare

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

was a touch of motherliness in her feelings towards him. But his upbringing and his associations had been, she diagnosed, "awful." At New Romney she glanced but little; that was remote. But in her inventory--she went over him as one might go over a newly taken house, with impartial thoroughness--she discovered more proximate influences, surprising intimations of nocturnal "sing-songs"--she pictured it as almost shocking that Kipps should sing to the banjo--much low-grade wisdom treasured from a person called Buggins--"Who _is_ Buggins?" said Helen--vague figures of indisputable vulgarity, Pierce and Carshot, and more particularly, a very terrible social phenomenon, Chitterlow. Chitterlow blazed upon them with unheralded oppressive brilliance the first time they were abroad together. They were going along the front of the Leas to see a school play in Sandgate--at the last moment Mrs. Walshingham had been unable to come with them--when Chitterlow loomed up into the new world. He was wearing the suit of striped flannel and the straw hat that had followed Kipps' payment in advance for his course in elocution, his hands were deep in his side pockets and animated the corners of his jacket, and his attentive gaze at the passing loungers, the faint smile under his boldly drawn nose, showed him engaged in studying character--no doubt for some forthcoming play. "What HO!" said he, at the sight of Kipps, and swept off the straw hat with so ample a clutch of his great, flat hand that it suggested to Helen's startled mind a conjurer about to palm a half-penny. "'Ello, Chitt'low," said Kipps a little awkwardly and not saluting. Chitterlow hesitated. "Half a mo', my boy," he said, and arrested Kipps by extending a large hand over his chest. "Excuse me, my dear," he said, bowing like his Russian count by way of apology to Helen and with a smile that would have killed at a hundred yards. He affected a semi-confidential grouping of himself and Kipps while Helen stood in white amazement. "About that play," he said. "'Ow about it?" asked Kipps, acutely aware of Helen. "It's all right," said Chitterlow. "There's a strong smell of syndicate in the air, I may tell you--Strong." "That's aw right," said Kipps. "You needn't tell everybody," said Chitterlow with a transitory, confidential hand to his mouth, which pointed the application of the "everybody" just a trifle too strongly. "But I think it's coming off. However----. I mustn't detain you now. So long. You'll come 'round, eh?" "Right you are," said Kipps. "To-night?" "At eight." And then, and more in the manner of a Russian prince than any common count, Chitterlow bowed and withdrew. Just for a moment he allowed a conquering eye to challenge Helen's and noted her for a girl of quality.... There was a silence between our lovers for a space. "That," said Kipps with an allusive movement of the head, "was Chitterlow." "Is he--a friend of yours?" "In a way.... You see--I met 'im. Leastways 'e met me. Run into me with a bicycle, 'e did, and so we got talking together." He tried to appear at his ease. The young lady scrutinised his profile. "What is he?" "'E's a Nacter chap," said Kipps. "Leastways 'e writes plays." "And sells them?" "Partly." "Whom to?" "Different people. Shares he sells.... It's all right, reely--I meant to tell you about him before." Helen looked over her shoulder to catch a view of Chitterlow's retreating aspect. It did not compel her complete confidence. She turned to her lover and said in a tone of quiet authority, "You must tell me all about Chitterlow. Now." The explanation began.... The School Play came almost as a relief to Kipps. In the flusterment of going in he could almost forget for a time his Laocoon struggle to explain, and in the intervals he did his best to keep forgetting. But Helen, with a gentle insistence, resumed the explanation of Chitterlow as they returned towards Folkestone. Chitterlow was confoundedly difficult to explain. You could hardly imagine! There was an almost motherly anxiety in Helen's manner, blended with the resolution of a schoolmistress to get to the bottom of the affair. Kipps' ears were soon quite brightly red. "Have you seen one of his plays?" "'E's tole me about one." "But on the stage." "No. He 'asn't 'ad any on the stage yet. That's all coming...." "Promise me," she said in conclusion, "you won't do anything without consulting me." And of course Kipps promised. "Oo--no!" They went on their way in silence. "One can't know everybody," said Helen in general. "Of course," said Kipps; "in a sort of way it was him that helped me to my money." And he indicated in a confused manner the story of the advertisement. "I don't like to drop 'im all at once," he added. Helen was silent for a space, and when she spoke she went off at a tangent. "We shall live in London--soon," she remarked. "It's only while we are here." It was the first intimation she gave him of their post-nuptial prospects. "We shall have a nice little flat somewhere, not too far west, and there we shall build up a circle of our own." 2 All that declining summer Kipps was the pupil lover. He made an extraordinarily open secret of his desire for self-improvement; indeed Helen had to hint once or twice that his modest frankness was excessive, and all this new circle of friends did, each after his or her manner, everything that was possible to supplement Helen's efforts and help him to ease and skill in the more cultivated circles to which he had come. Coote was still the chief teacher, the tutor--there are so many little difficulties that a man may take to another man that he would not care to propound to the woman he loves--but they were all, so to speak, upon the staff. Even the freckled girl said to him once in a pleasant way, "You mustn't say "contre temps," you must say "contraytom,"" when he borrowed that expression from "Manners and Rules," and she tried at his own suggestion to give him clear ideas upon the subject of "as" and "has." A certain confusion between these words was becoming evident, the first fruits of a lesson from Chitterlow on the aspirate. Hitherto he had discarded that dangerous letter almost altogether, but now he would pull up at words beginning with "h" and draw a sawing breath--rather like a startled kitten--and then aspirate with vigour. Said Kipps one day, "_As_ 'e?--I should say, ah--Has 'e? Ye know I got a lot of difficulty over them two words, which is which?" "Well, 'as' is a conjunction and 'has' is a verb." "I know," said Kipps, "but when is 'has' a conjunction and when is 'as' a verb?" "Well," said the freckled girl, preparing to be very lucid. "It's _has_ when it means one has, meaning having, but if it isn't it's _as_. As for instance one says 'e--I mean _he_--He has. But one says 'as he has.'" "I see," said Kipps. "So I ought to say 'as 'e?'" "No, if you are asking a question you say _has_ 'e--I mean he--'as he?" She blushed quite brightly, but still clung to her air of lucidity. "I see," said Kipps. He was about to say something further, but he desisted. "I got it much clearer now. _Has_ 'e? _Has_ 'e as. Yes." "If you remember about having." "Oo I will," said Kipps. Miss Coote specialised in Kipps' artistic development. She had early found an opinion that he had considerable artistic sensibility, his remarks on her work had struck her as decidedly intelligent, and whenever he called around to see them she would show him some work of art, now an illustrated book, now perhaps a colour print of a Botticelli, now the Hundred Best Paintings, now "Academy Pictures," now a German art handbook and now some magazine of furniture and design. "I know you like these things," she used to say, and Kipps said, "Oo I _do_." He soon acquired a little armoury of appreciative sayings. When presently the Walshinghams took him up to the Arts and Crafts, his deportment was intelligent in the extreme. For a time he kept a wary silence and suddenly pitched upon a colour print. "That's rather nace," he said to Mrs. Walshingham. "That lill' thing. There." He always said things like that by preference to the mother rather than the daughter unless he was perfectly sure. He quite took to Mrs. Walshingham. He was impressed by her conspicuous tact and refinement; it seemed to him that the ladylike could go no further. She was always dressed with a delicate fussiness that was never disarranged and even a sort of faded quality about her hair and face and bearing and emotions contributed to her effect. Kipps was not a big man, and commonly he did not feel a big man, but with Mrs. Walshingham he always felt enormous and distended, as though he was a navvy who had taken some disagreeable poison which puffed him up inside his skin as a preliminary to bursting. He felt, too, as though he had been rolled in clay and his hair dressed with gum. And he felt that his voice was strident and his accent like somebody swinging a crowded pig's pail in a free and careless manner. All this increased and enforced his respect for her. Her hand, which flitted often and again to his hand and arm, was singularly well shaped and cool. "Arthur," she called him from the very beginning. She did not so much positively teach and tell him as tactfully guide and infect him. Her conversation was not so much didactic as exemplary. She would say, "I _do_ like people to do" so and so. She would tell him anecdotes of nice things done, of gentlemanly feats of graceful consideration; she would record her neat observations of people in trains and omnibuses; how, for example, a man had passed her change to the conductor, "quite a common man he looked," but he had lifted his hat. She stamped Kipps so deeply with the hat-raising habit that he would uncover if he found himself in the same railway ticket office with a lady had to stand ceremoniously until the difficulties of change drove him to an apologetic provisional oblique resumption of his headgear.... And robbing these things of any air of personal application, she threw about them an abundant talk about her two children--she called them her Twin Jewels quite frequently--about their gifts, their temperaments, their ambition, their need of opportunity. They needed opportunity, she would say, as other people needed air.... In his conversations with her Kipps always assumed, and she seemed to assume, that she was to join that home in London Helen foreshadowed, but he was surprised one day to gather that this was not to be the case. "It wouldn't do," said Helen, with decision. "We want to make a circle of our own." "But won't she be a bit lonely down here?" asked Kipps. "There's the Waces, and Mrs. Prebble and Mrs. Bindon Botting and--lots of people she knows." And Helen dismissed this possibility.... Young Walshingham's share in the educational syndicate was smaller. But he shone out when they went to London on that Arts and Crafts expedition. Then this rising man of affairs showed Kipps how to buy the more theatrical weeklies for consumption in the train, how to buy and what to buy in the way of cigarettes with gold tips and shilling cigars, and how to order hock for lunch and sparkling Moselle for dinner, how to calculate the fare of a hansom cab--penny a minute while he goes--how to look intelligently at an hotel tape, and how to sit still in a train like a thoughtful man instead of talking like a fool and giving yourself away. And he, too, would glance at the good time coming when they were to be in London for good and all. That prospect expanded and developed particulars. It presently took up a large part of Helen's conversation. Her conversations with Kipps were never of a grossly sentimental sort; there was a shyness of speech in that matter with both of them, but these new adumbrations were at least as interesting and not so directly disagreeable as the clear-cut intimations of personal defect that for a time had so greatly chastened Kipps' delight in her presence. The future presented itself with an almost perfect frankness as a joint campaign of Mrs. Walshingham's Twin Jewels upon the Great World, with Kipps in the capacity of baggage and supply. They would still be dreadfully poor, of course--this amazed Kipps, but he said nothing--until "Brudderkins" began to succeed, but if they were clever and lucky they might do a great deal. When Helen spoke of London a brooding look, as of one who contemplates a distant country, came into her eyes. Already it seemed they had the nucleus of a set. Brudderkins was a member of the Theatrical Judges, an excellent and influential little club of journalists and literary people, and he knew Shimer and Stargate and Whiffle, of the "Red Dragon," and besides these were the Revels. They knew the Revels quite well. Sidney Revel before his rapid rise to prominence as a writer of epigrammatic essays that were quite above the ordinary public, had been an assistant master at one of the best Folkestone schools, Brudderkins had brought him home to tea several times, and it was he had first suggested Helen should try and write. "It's perfectly easy," Sidney had said. He had been writing occasional things for the evening papers, and for the weekly reviews even at that time. Then he had gone up to London and had almost unavoidedly become a dramatic critic. Those brilliant essays had followed, and then "Red Hearts a-Beating," the romance that had made him. It was a tale of spirited adventure, full of youth and beauty and na ve passion and generous devotion, bold, as the _Bookman_ said, and frank in places, but never in the slightest degree morbid. He had met and married an American widow with quite a lot of money, and they had made a very distinct place for themselves, Kipps learnt, in the literary and artistic society of London. Helen seemed to dwell on the Revels a great deal; it was her exemplary story, and when she spoke of Sidney--she often called him Sidney--she would become thoughtful. She spoke most of him naturally because she had still to meet Mrs. Revel.... Certainly they would be in the world in no time, even if the distant connection with the Beaupres family came to nothing. Kipps gathered that with his marriage and the movement to London they were to undergo that subtle change of name Coote had first adumbrated. They were to become "Cuyps," Mr. and Mrs. Cuyps. Or, was it Cuyp? "It'll be rum at first," said Kipps. "I dessay I shall soon get into it."... So in their several ways they all contributed to enlarge and refine and exercise the intelligence of Kipps. And behind all these other influences, and, as it were, presiding over and correcting these influences, was Kipps' nearest friend, Coote, a sort of master of the ceremonies. You figure his face, blowing slightly with solicitude, his slate coloured, projecting but not unkindly eye intent upon our hero. The thing he thought was going off admirably. He studied Kipps' character immensely. He would discuss him with his sister, with Mrs. Walshingham, with the freckled girl, with anyone who would stand it. "He is an interesting character," he would say, "likable--a sort of gentleman by instinct. He takes to all these things. He improves every day. He'll soon get Sang Froid. We took him up just in time. He wants now--well----. Next year, perhaps, if there is a good Extension Literature course, he might go in for it. He wants to go in for something like that." "He's going in for his bicycle now," said Mrs. Walshingham. "That's all right for summer," said Coote, "but he wants to go in for some serious, intellectual interest, something to take him out of himself a little more. Savoir Faire and self-forgetfulness is more than half the secret of Sang Froid." 3 The world as Coote presented it was in part an endorsement, in part an amplification and in part a rectification of the world of Kipps, the world that derived from the old couple in New Romney and had been developed in the Emporium; the world, in fact, of common British life. There was the same subtle sense of social graduation that had moved Mrs. Kipps to prohibit intercourse with labourers' children and the same dread of anything "common" that had kept the personal quality of Mr. Shalford's establishment so high. But now a certain disagreeable doubt about Kipps' own position was removed and he stood with Coote inside the sphere of gentlemen assured. Within the sphere of gentlemen there are distinctions of rank indeed, but none of class; there are the Big People and the modest, refined, gentlemanly little people like Coote, who may even dabble in the professions and counterless trades; there are lords and magnificences, and there are gentle folk who have to manage, but they can all call on one another, they preserve a general equality of deportment throughout, they constitute that great state within the state, Society, or at any rate they make believe they do. "But reely," said the Pupil, "not what you call being in Society?" "Yes," said Coote. "Of course, down here one doesn't see much of it, but there's local society. It has the same rules." "Calling and all that?" "Precisely," said Coote. Kipps thought, whistled a bar, and suddenly broached a question of conscience. "I often wonder," he said, "whether I oughtn't to dress for dinner--when I'm alone 'ere." Coote protruded his lips and reflected. "Not full dress," he adjudicated; "that would be a little excessive. But you should _change_, you know. Put on a mess jacket and that sort of thing--easy dress. That is what _I_ should do, certainly, if I wasn't in harness--and poor." He coughed modestly and patted his hair behind. And after that the washing bill of Kipps quadrupled, and he was to be seen at times by the bandstand with his light summer overcoat unbuttoned to give a glimpse of his nice white tie. He and Coote would be smoking the gold-tipped cigarettes young Walshingham had prescribed as _chic_, and appreciating the music highly. "That's--puff--a very nice bit," Kipps would say, or better, "That's nace." And at the first grunts of the loyal anthem up they stood with religiously uplifted hats. Whatever else you might call them, you could never call them disloyal. The boundary of Society was admittedly very close to Coote and Kipps, and a leading solicitude of the true gentleman was to detect clearly those "beneath" him, and to behave towards them in a proper spirit. "It's jest there it's so 'ard for me," said Kipps. He had to cultivate a certain "distance," to acquire altogether the art of checking the presumption of bounders and old friends. It was difficult, Coote admitted. "That's what, so harkward--I mean awkward." "I got mixed up with this lot 'ere," said Kipps. "You could give them a hint," said Coote. "'Ow?" "Oh!--the occasion will suggest something." The occasion came one early closing night when Kipps was sitting in a canopy chair near the bandstand, with his summer overcoat fully open and a new Gibus pulled slightly forward over his brow, waiting for Coote. They were to hear the band for an hour and then go down to assist Miss Coote and the freckled girl in trying over some of Beethoven's duets, if they remembered them, that is, sufficiently well. And as Kipps lounged back in his chair and occupied his mind with his favourite amusement on such evenings, which consisted chiefly in supposing that everyone about him was wondering who he was, came a rude rap at the canvas back and the voice of Pierce. "It's nice to be a gentleman," said Pierce, and swung a penny chair into position while Buggins appeared smiling agreeably on the other side and leant upon his stick. _He was smoking a common briar pipe!_ Two real ladies, very fashionably dressed and sitting close at hand, glanced quickly at Pierce, and then away again, and it was evident _their_ wonder was at an end. "_He's_ all right," said Buggins, removing his pipe and surveying Kipps. "'Ello, Buggins!" said Kipps, not too cordially. "'Ow goes it?" "All right. Holiday's next week. If you don't look out, Kipps, I shall be on the Continong before you. Eh?" "You going t' Boologne?" "Ra-ther. Parley vous Francey. You bet." "_I_ shall 'ave a bit of a run over there one of these days," said Kipps. There came a pause. Pierce applied the top of his stick to his mouth for a space and regarded Kipps. Then he glanced at the people about them. "I say, Kipps," he said in a distinct, loud voice, "see 'er Ladyship lately?" Kipps perceived the audience was to be impressed, but he responded half-heartedly, "No, I 'aven't," he said. "She was along of Sir William the other night," said Pierce, still loud and clear, "and she asked to be remembered to you." It seemed to Kipps that one of the two ladies smiled faintly and said something to the other, and then certainly they glanced at Pierce. Kipps flushed scarlet. "_Did_ she?" he answered. Buggins laughed good-humouredly over his pipe. "Sir William suffers a lot from his gout," Pierce continued unabashed. (Buggins much amused with his pipe between his teeth.) Kipps became aware of Coote at hand. Coote nodded rather distantly to Pierce. "Hope I haven't kept you waiting, Kipps," he said. "I kep' a chair for you," said Kipps and removed a guardian foot. "But you've got your friends," said Coote. "Oh! _we_ don't mind," said Pierce cordially, "the more the merrier," and, "why don't you get a chair, Buggins?" Buggins shook his head in a sort of aside to Pierce and Coote coughed behind his hand. "Been kep' late at business?" asked Pierce. Coote turned quite pale and pretended not to hear. His eyes sought in space for a time and with a convulsive movement he recognised a distant acquaintance and raised his hat. Pierce had also become a little pale. He addressed himself to Kipps in an undertone. "Mr. Coote, isn't he?" he asked. Coote addressed himself to Kipps directly and exclusively. His manner had the calm of extreme tension. "I'm rather late," he said. "I think we ought almost to be going on _now_." Kipps stood up. "That's all right," he said. "Which way are you going?" said Pierce, standing also, and brushing some crumbs of cigarette ash from his sleeve. For a moment Coote was breathless. "Thank you," he said, and gasped. Then he delivered the necessary blow; "I don't think we're in need of your society, you know," and turned away. Kipps found himself falling over chairs and things in the wake of Coote, and then they were clear of the crowd. For a space Coote said nothing; then he remarked abruptly and quite angrily for him, "I think that was _awful_ Cheek!" Kipps made no reply.... The whole thing was an interesting little object lesson in distance, and it stuck in the front of Kipps' mind for a long time. He had particularly vivid the face of Pierce, with an expression between astonishment and anger. He felt as though he had struck Pierce in the face under circumstances that gave Pierce no power to reply. He did not attend very much to the duets and even forgot at the end of one of them to say how perfectly lovely it was. 4 But you must not imagine that the national ideal of a gentleman, as Coote developed it, was all a matter of deportment and selectness, a mere isolation from debasing associations. There is a Serious Side, a deeper aspect of the true, True Gentleman. The True Gentleman does not wear his heart on his sleeve. He is a polished surface above deeps. For example, he is deeply religious, as Coote was, as Mrs. Walshingham was, but outside the walls of a church it never appears, except perhaps now and then in a pause, in a profound look, in a sudden avoidance. In quite a little while Kipps also had learnt the pause, the profound look, the sudden avoidance, that final refinement of spirituality, impressionistic piety. And the True Gentleman is patriotic also. When one saw Coote lifting his hat to the National Anthem, then perhaps one got a glimpse of what patriotic emotions, what worship, the polish of a gentleman may hide. Or singing out his deep notes against the Hosts of Midian, in the St. Stylites choir; then indeed you plumbed his spiritual side. Christian, dost thou heed them, On the holy ground, How the hosts of Mid-i-an, Prowl and prowl around! Christian, up and smai-it them.... But these were but gleams. For the rest, Religion, Nationality, Passion, Money, Politics; much more so those cardinal issues, Birth and Death, the True Gentleman skirted about, and became facially rigid towards and ceased to speak and panted and blew. "One doesn't talk of that sort of thing," Coote would say with a gesture of the knuckly hand. "O' course," Kipps would reply, with an equal significance. Profundities. Deep as it were, blowing to deep. One does not talk, but on the other hand one is punctilious to do. Actions speak. Kipps--in spite of the fact that the Walshinghams were more than a little lax--Kipps, who had formerly flitted Sunday after Sunday from one Folkestone church to another, had now a sitting of his own, paid for duly at Saint Stylites. There he was to be seen, always at the surplice evening service, and sometimes of a morning, dressed with a sober precision, and with an eye on Coote in the chancel. No difficulties now about finding the place in his book. He became a communicant again--he had lapsed soon after his confirmation when the young lady in the costume-room, who was his adopted sister, left the Emporium--and he would sometimes go around to the Vestry for Coote after the service. One evening he was introduced to the Hon. and Rev. Densemore. He was much too confused to say anything, and the noble cleric had nothing to say, but indisputably they were introduced.... No! you must not imagine our national ideal of a gentleman is without its "serious side," without even its stern and uncompromising side. The imagination no doubt refuses to see Coote displaying extraordinary refinements of courage upon the stricken field, but in the walks of peace there is sometimes sore need of sternness. Charitable as one may be, one must admit there are people who _do_ things, impossible things; people who place themselves "out of it" in countless ways; people, moreover, who are by a sort of predestination out of it from the beginning, and against these Society has invented a terrible protection for its Cootery, the Cut. The cut is no joke for anyone. It is excommunication. You may be cut by an individual, you may be cut by a set or you may be--and this is so tragic that beautiful romances have been written about it--"Cut by the County." One figures Coote discharging this last duty and cutting somebody--Coote, erect and pale, never speaking, going past with eyes of pitiless slate, lower jaw protruding a little, face pursed up and cold and stiff.... It never dawned upon Kipps that he would one day have to face this terrible front, to be to Coote not only as one dead, but as one gone more than a stage or so in decay, cut and passed, banned and outcast for ever. Yet so it was to be! One cannot hide any longer that all this fine progress of Kipps is doomed to end in collapse. So far indeed you have seen him ascend. You have seen him becoming more refined and careful day by day, more carefully dressed, less clumsy in the ways and methods of social life. You have seen the gulf widening between himself and his former low associates. I have brought you at last to the vision of him, faultlessly dressed and posed, in an atmosphere of candlelight and chanting, in his own sitting in one of the most fashionable churches in Folkestone.... All the time I have refrained from the lightest touch upon the tragic note that must now creep into my tale. Yet the net of his low connections has been about his feet, and moreover there was something interwoven in his being.... CHAPTER VI DISCORDS 1 One day Kipps set out upon his newly-mastered bicycle to New Romney to break the news of his engagement to his Uncle and Aunt--this time positively. He was now a finished cyclist, but as yet an unseasoned one; the southwest wind, even in its summer guise, as one meets it in the Marsh, is the equivalent of a reasonable hill, and ever and again he got off and refreshed himself by a spell of walking. He was walking just outside New Romney preparatory to his triumphal entry (one hand off) when abruptly he came upon Ann Pornick. It chanced he was thinking about her at the time. He had been thinking curious things; whether, after all, the atmosphere of New Romney and the Marsh had not some difference, some faint impalpable quality that was missing in the great and fashionable world of Folkestone behind there on the hill. Here there was a homeliness, a familiarity. He had noted as he passed that old Mr. Cliffordown's gate had been mended with a fresh piece of

red

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

was a touch of motherliness in her feelings towards him. But his upbringing and his associations had been, she diagnosed, "awful." At New Romney she glanced but little; that was remote. But in her inventory--she went over him as one might go over a newly taken house, with impartial thoroughness--she discovered more proximate influences, surprising intimations of nocturnal "sing-songs"--she pictured it as almost shocking that Kipps should sing to the banjo--much low-grade wisdom treasured from a person called Buggins--"Who _is_ Buggins?" said Helen--vague figures of indisputable vulgarity, Pierce and Carshot, and more particularly, a very terrible social phenomenon, Chitterlow. Chitterlow blazed upon them with unheralded oppressive brilliance the first time they were abroad together. They were going along the front of the Leas to see a school play in Sandgate--at the last moment Mrs. Walshingham had been unable to come with them--when Chitterlow loomed up into the new world. He was wearing the suit of striped flannel and the straw hat that had followed Kipps' payment in advance for his course in elocution, his hands were deep in his side pockets and animated the corners of his jacket, and his attentive gaze at the passing loungers, the faint smile under his boldly drawn nose, showed him engaged in studying character--no doubt for some forthcoming play. "What HO!" said he, at the sight of Kipps, and swept off the straw hat with so ample a clutch of his great, flat hand that it suggested to Helen's startled mind a conjurer about to palm a half-penny. "'Ello, Chitt'low," said Kipps a little awkwardly and not saluting. Chitterlow hesitated. "Half a mo', my boy," he said, and arrested Kipps by extending a large hand over his chest. "Excuse me, my dear," he said, bowing like his Russian count by way of apology to Helen and with a smile that would have killed at a hundred yards. He affected a semi-confidential grouping of himself and Kipps while Helen stood in white amazement. "About that play," he said. "'Ow about it?" asked Kipps, acutely aware of Helen. "It's all right," said Chitterlow. "There's a strong smell of syndicate in the air, I may tell you--Strong." "That's aw right," said Kipps. "You needn't tell everybody," said Chitterlow with a transitory, confidential hand to his mouth, which pointed the application of the "everybody" just a trifle too strongly. "But I think it's coming off. However----. I mustn't detain you now. So long. You'll come 'round, eh?" "Right you are," said Kipps. "To-night?" "At eight." And then, and more in the manner of a Russian prince than any common count, Chitterlow bowed and withdrew. Just for a moment he allowed a conquering eye to challenge Helen's and noted her for a girl of quality.... There was a silence between our lovers for a space. "That," said Kipps with an allusive movement of the head, "was Chitterlow." "Is he--a friend of yours?" "In a way.... You see--I met 'im. Leastways 'e met me. Run into me with a bicycle, 'e did, and so we got talking together." He tried to appear at his ease. The young lady scrutinised his profile. "What is he?" "'E's a Nacter chap," said Kipps. "Leastways 'e writes plays." "And sells them?" "Partly." "Whom to?" "Different people. Shares he sells.... It's all right, reely--I meant to tell you about him before." Helen looked over her shoulder to catch a view of Chitterlow's retreating aspect. It did not compel her complete confidence. She turned to her lover and said in a tone of quiet authority, "You must tell me all about Chitterlow. Now." The explanation began.... The School Play came almost as a relief to Kipps. In the flusterment of going in he could almost forget for a time his Laocoon struggle to explain, and in the intervals he did his best to keep forgetting. But Helen, with a gentle insistence, resumed the explanation of Chitterlow as they returned towards Folkestone. Chitterlow was confoundedly difficult to explain. You could hardly imagine! There was an almost motherly anxiety in Helen's manner, blended with the resolution of a schoolmistress to get to the bottom of the affair. Kipps' ears were soon quite brightly red. "Have you seen one of his plays?" "'E's tole me about one." "But on the stage." "No. He 'asn't 'ad any on the stage yet. That's all coming...." "Promise me," she said in conclusion, "you won't do anything without consulting me." And of course Kipps promised. "Oo--no!" They went on their way in silence. "One can't know everybody," said Helen in general. "Of course," said Kipps; "in a sort of way it was him that helped me to my money." And he indicated in a confused manner the story of the advertisement. "I don't like to drop 'im all at once," he added. Helen was silent for a space, and when she spoke she went off at a tangent. "We shall live in London--soon," she remarked. "It's only while we are here." It was the first intimation she gave him of their post-nuptial prospects. "We shall have a nice little flat somewhere, not too far west, and there we shall build up a circle of our own." 2 All that declining summer Kipps was the pupil lover. He made an extraordinarily open secret of his desire for self-improvement; indeed Helen had to hint once or twice that his modest frankness was excessive, and all this new circle of friends did, each after his or her manner, everything that was possible to supplement Helen's efforts and help him to ease and skill in the more cultivated circles to which he had come. Coote was still the chief teacher, the tutor--there are so many little difficulties that a man may take to another man that he would not care to propound to the woman he loves--but they were all, so to speak, upon the staff. Even the freckled girl said to him once in a pleasant way, "You mustn't say "contre temps," you must say "contraytom,"" when he borrowed that expression from "Manners and Rules," and she tried at his own suggestion to give him clear ideas upon the subject of "as" and "has." A certain confusion between these words was becoming evident, the first fruits of a lesson from Chitterlow on the aspirate. Hitherto he had discarded that dangerous letter almost altogether, but now he would pull up at words beginning with "h" and draw a sawing breath--rather like a startled kitten--and then aspirate with vigour. Said Kipps one day, "_As_ 'e?--I should say, ah--Has 'e? Ye know I got a lot of difficulty over them two words, which is which?" "Well, 'as' is a conjunction and 'has' is a verb." "I know," said Kipps, "but when is 'has' a conjunction and when is 'as' a verb?" "Well," said the freckled girl, preparing to be very lucid. "It's _has_ when it means one has, meaning having, but if it isn't it's _as_. As for instance one says 'e--I mean _he_--He has. But one says 'as he has.'" "I see," said Kipps. "So I ought to say 'as 'e?'" "No, if you are asking a question you say _has_ 'e--I mean he--'as he?" She blushed quite brightly, but still clung to her air of lucidity. "I see," said Kipps. He was about to say something further, but he desisted. "I got it much clearer now. _Has_ 'e? _Has_ 'e as. Yes." "If you remember about having." "Oo I will," said Kipps. Miss Coote specialised in Kipps' artistic development. She had early found an opinion that he had considerable artistic sensibility, his remarks on her work had struck her as decidedly intelligent, and whenever he called around to see them she would show him some work of art, now an illustrated book, now perhaps a colour print of a Botticelli, now the Hundred Best Paintings, now "Academy Pictures," now a German art handbook and now some magazine of furniture and design. "I know you like these things," she used to say, and Kipps said, "Oo I _do_." He soon acquired a little armoury of appreciative sayings. When presently the Walshinghams took him up to the Arts and Crafts, his deportment was intelligent in the extreme. For a time he kept a wary silence and suddenly pitched upon a colour print. "That's rather nace," he said to Mrs. Walshingham. "That lill' thing. There." He always said things like that by preference to the mother rather than the daughter unless he was perfectly sure. He quite took to Mrs. Walshingham. He was impressed by her conspicuous tact and refinement; it seemed to him that the ladylike could go no further. She was always dressed with a delicate fussiness that was never disarranged and even a sort of faded quality about her hair and face and bearing and emotions contributed to her effect. Kipps was not a big man, and commonly he did not feel a big man, but with Mrs. Walshingham he always felt enormous and distended, as though he was a navvy who had taken some disagreeable poison which puffed him up inside his skin as a preliminary to bursting. He felt, too, as though he had been rolled in clay and his hair dressed with gum. And he felt that his voice was strident and his accent like somebody swinging a crowded pig's pail in a free and careless manner. All this increased and enforced his respect for her. Her hand, which flitted often and again to his hand and arm, was singularly well shaped and cool. "Arthur," she called him from the very beginning. She did not so much positively teach and tell him as tactfully guide and infect him. Her conversation was not so much didactic as exemplary. She would say, "I _do_ like people to do" so and so. She would tell him anecdotes of nice things done, of gentlemanly feats of graceful consideration; she would record her neat observations of people in trains and omnibuses; how, for example, a man had passed her change to the conductor, "quite a common man he looked," but he had lifted his hat. She stamped Kipps so deeply with the hat-raising habit that he would uncover if he found himself in the same railway ticket office with a lady had to stand ceremoniously until the difficulties of change drove him to an apologetic provisional oblique resumption of his headgear.... And robbing these things of any air of personal application, she threw about them an abundant talk about her two children--she called them her Twin Jewels quite frequently--about their gifts, their temperaments, their ambition, their need of opportunity. They needed opportunity, she would say, as other people needed air.... In his conversations with her Kipps always assumed, and she seemed to assume, that she was to join that home in London Helen foreshadowed, but he was surprised one day to gather that this was not to be the case. "It wouldn't do," said Helen, with decision. "We want to make a circle of our own." "But won't she be a bit lonely down here?" asked Kipps. "There's the Waces, and Mrs. Prebble and Mrs. Bindon Botting and--lots of people she knows." And Helen dismissed this possibility.... Young Walshingham's share in the educational syndicate was smaller. But he shone out when they went to London on that Arts and Crafts expedition. Then this rising man of affairs showed Kipps how to buy the more theatrical weeklies for consumption in the train, how to buy and what to buy in the way of cigarettes with gold tips and shilling cigars, and how to order hock for lunch and sparkling Moselle for dinner, how to calculate the fare of a hansom cab--penny a minute while he goes--how to look intelligently at an hotel tape, and how to sit still in a train like a thoughtful man instead of talking like a fool and giving yourself away. And he, too, would glance at the good time coming when they were to be in London for good and all. That prospect expanded and developed particulars. It presently took up a large part of Helen's conversation. Her conversations with Kipps were never of a grossly sentimental sort; there was a shyness of speech in that matter with both of them, but these new adumbrations were at least as interesting and not so directly disagreeable as the clear-cut intimations of personal defect that for a time had so greatly chastened Kipps' delight in her presence. The future presented itself with an almost perfect frankness as a joint campaign of Mrs. Walshingham's Twin Jewels upon the Great World, with Kipps in the capacity of baggage and supply. They would still be dreadfully poor, of course--this amazed Kipps, but he said nothing--until "Brudderkins" began to succeed, but if they were clever and lucky they might do a great deal. When Helen spoke of London a brooding look, as of one who contemplates a distant country, came into her eyes. Already it seemed they had the nucleus of a set. Brudderkins was a member of the Theatrical Judges, an excellent and influential little club of journalists and literary people, and he knew Shimer and Stargate and Whiffle, of the "Red Dragon," and besides these were the Revels. They knew the Revels quite well. Sidney Revel before his rapid rise to prominence as a writer of epigrammatic essays that were quite above the ordinary public, had been an assistant master at one of the best Folkestone schools, Brudderkins had brought him home to tea several times, and it was he had first suggested Helen should try and write. "It's perfectly easy," Sidney had said. He had been writing occasional things for the evening papers, and for the weekly reviews even at that time. Then he had gone up to London and had almost unavoidedly become a dramatic critic. Those brilliant essays had followed, and then "Red Hearts a-Beating," the romance that had made him. It was a tale of spirited adventure, full of youth and beauty and na ve passion and generous devotion, bold, as the _Bookman_ said, and frank in places, but never in the slightest degree morbid. He had met and married an American widow with quite a lot of money, and they had made a very distinct place for themselves, Kipps learnt, in the literary and artistic society of London. Helen seemed to dwell on the Revels a great deal; it was her exemplary story, and when she spoke of Sidney--she often called him Sidney--she would become thoughtful. She spoke most of him naturally because she had still to meet Mrs. Revel.... Certainly they would be in the world in no time, even if the distant connection with the Beaupres family came to nothing. Kipps gathered that with his marriage and the movement to London they were to undergo that subtle change of name Coote had first adumbrated. They were to become "Cuyps," Mr. and Mrs. Cuyps. Or, was it Cuyp? "It'll be rum at first," said Kipps. "I dessay I shall soon get into it."... So in their several ways they all contributed to enlarge and refine and exercise the intelligence of Kipps. And behind all these other influences, and, as it were, presiding over and correcting these influences, was Kipps' nearest friend, Coote, a sort of master of the ceremonies. You figure his face, blowing slightly with solicitude, his slate coloured, projecting but not unkindly eye intent upon our hero. The thing he thought was going off admirably. He studied Kipps' character immensely. He would discuss him with his sister, with Mrs. Walshingham, with the freckled girl, with anyone who would stand it. "He is an interesting character," he would say, "likable--a sort of gentleman by instinct. He takes to all these things. He improves every day. He'll soon get Sang Froid. We took him up just in time. He wants now--well----. Next year, perhaps, if there is a good Extension Literature course, he might go in for it. He wants to go in for something like that." "He's going in for his bicycle now," said Mrs. Walshingham. "That's all right for summer," said Coote, "but he wants to go in for some serious, intellectual interest, something to take him out of himself a little more. Savoir Faire and self-forgetfulness is more than half the secret of Sang Froid." 3 The world as Coote presented it was in part an endorsement, in part an amplification and in part a rectification of the world of Kipps, the world that derived from the old couple in New Romney and had been developed in the Emporium; the world, in fact, of common British life. There was the same subtle sense of social graduation that had moved Mrs. Kipps to prohibit intercourse with labourers' children and the same dread of anything "common" that had kept the personal quality of Mr. Shalford's establishment so high. But now a certain disagreeable doubt about Kipps' own position was removed and he stood with Coote inside the sphere of gentlemen assured. Within the sphere of gentlemen there are distinctions of rank indeed, but none of class; there are the Big People and the modest, refined, gentlemanly little people like Coote, who may even dabble in the professions and counterless trades; there are lords and magnificences, and there are gentle folk who have to manage, but they can all call on one another, they preserve a general equality of deportment throughout, they constitute that great state within the state, Society, or at any rate they make believe they do. "But reely," said the Pupil, "not what you call being in Society?" "Yes," said Coote. "Of course, down here one doesn't see much of it, but there's local society. It has the same rules." "Calling and all that?" "Precisely," said Coote. Kipps thought, whistled a bar, and suddenly broached a question of conscience. "I often wonder," he said, "whether I oughtn't to dress for dinner--when I'm alone 'ere." Coote protruded his lips and reflected. "Not full dress," he adjudicated; "that would be a little excessive. But you should _change_, you know. Put on a mess jacket and that sort of thing--easy dress. That is what _I_ should do, certainly, if I wasn't in harness--and poor." He coughed modestly and patted his hair behind. And after that the washing bill of Kipps quadrupled, and he was to be seen at times by the bandstand with his light summer overcoat unbuttoned to give a glimpse of his nice white tie. He and Coote would be smoking the gold-tipped cigarettes young Walshingham had prescribed as _chic_, and appreciating the music highly. "That's--puff--a very nice bit," Kipps would say, or better, "That's nace." And at the first grunts of the loyal anthem up they stood with religiously uplifted hats. Whatever else you might call them, you could never call them disloyal. The boundary of Society was admittedly very close to Coote and Kipps, and a leading solicitude of the true gentleman was to detect clearly those "beneath" him, and to behave towards them in a proper spirit. "It's jest there it's so 'ard for me," said Kipps. He had to cultivate a certain "distance," to acquire altogether the art of checking the presumption of bounders and old friends. It was difficult, Coote admitted. "That's what, so harkward--I mean awkward." "I got mixed up with this lot 'ere," said Kipps. "You could give them a hint," said Coote. "'Ow?" "Oh!--the occasion will suggest something." The occasion came one early closing night when Kipps was sitting in a canopy chair near the bandstand, with his summer overcoat fully open and a new Gibus pulled slightly forward over his brow, waiting for Coote. They were to hear the band for an hour and then go down to assist Miss Coote and the freckled girl in trying over some of Beethoven's duets, if they remembered them, that is, sufficiently well. And as Kipps lounged back in his chair and occupied his mind with his favourite amusement on such evenings, which consisted chiefly in supposing that everyone about him was wondering who he was, came a rude rap at the canvas back and the voice of Pierce. "It's nice to be a gentleman," said Pierce, and swung a penny chair into position while Buggins appeared smiling agreeably on the other side and leant upon his stick. _He was smoking a common briar pipe!_ Two real ladies, very fashionably dressed and sitting close at hand, glanced quickly at Pierce, and then away again, and it was evident _their_ wonder was at an end. "_He's_ all right," said Buggins, removing his pipe and surveying Kipps. "'Ello, Buggins!" said Kipps, not too cordially. "'Ow goes it?" "All right. Holiday's next week. If you don't look out, Kipps, I shall be on the Continong before you. Eh?" "You going t' Boologne?" "Ra-ther. Parley vous Francey. You bet." "_I_ shall 'ave a bit of a run over there one of these days," said Kipps. There came a pause. Pierce applied the top of his stick to his mouth for a space and regarded Kipps. Then he glanced at the people about them. "I say, Kipps," he said in a distinct, loud voice, "see 'er Ladyship lately?" Kipps perceived the audience was to be impressed, but he responded half-heartedly, "No, I 'aven't," he said. "She was along of Sir William the other night," said Pierce, still loud and clear, "and she asked to be remembered to you." It seemed to Kipps that one of the two ladies smiled faintly and said something to the other, and then certainly they glanced at Pierce. Kipps flushed scarlet. "_Did_ she?" he answered. Buggins laughed good-humouredly over his pipe. "Sir William suffers a lot from his gout," Pierce continued unabashed. (Buggins much amused with his pipe between his teeth.) Kipps became aware of Coote at hand. Coote nodded rather distantly to Pierce. "Hope I haven't kept you waiting, Kipps," he said. "I kep' a chair for you," said Kipps and removed a guardian foot. "But you've got your friends," said Coote. "Oh! _we_ don't mind," said Pierce cordially, "the more the merrier," and, "why don't you get a chair, Buggins?" Buggins shook his head in a sort of aside to Pierce and Coote coughed behind his hand. "Been kep' late at business?" asked Pierce. Coote turned quite pale and pretended not to hear. His eyes sought in space for a time and with a convulsive movement he recognised a distant acquaintance and raised his hat. Pierce had also become a little pale. He addressed himself to Kipps in an undertone. "Mr. Coote, isn't he?" he asked. Coote addressed himself to Kipps directly and exclusively. His manner had the calm of extreme tension. "I'm rather late," he said. "I think we ought almost to be going on _now_." Kipps stood up. "That's all right," he said. "Which way are you going?" said Pierce, standing also, and brushing some crumbs of cigarette ash from his sleeve. For a moment Coote was breathless. "Thank you," he said, and gasped. Then he delivered the necessary blow; "I don't think we're in need of your society, you know," and turned away. Kipps found himself falling over chairs and things in the wake of Coote, and then they were clear of the crowd. For a space Coote said nothing; then he remarked abruptly and quite angrily for him, "I think that was _awful_ Cheek!" Kipps made no reply.... The whole thing was an interesting little object lesson in distance, and it stuck in the front of Kipps' mind for a long time. He had particularly vivid the face of Pierce, with an expression between astonishment and anger. He felt as though he had struck Pierce in the face under circumstances that gave Pierce no power to reply. He did not attend very much to the duets and even forgot at the end of one of them to say how perfectly lovely it was. 4 But you must not imagine that the national ideal of a gentleman, as Coote developed it, was all a matter of deportment and selectness, a mere isolation from debasing associations. There is a Serious Side, a deeper aspect of the true, True Gentleman. The True Gentleman does not wear his heart on his sleeve. He is a polished surface above deeps. For example, he is deeply religious, as Coote was, as Mrs. Walshingham was, but outside the walls of a church it never appears, except perhaps now and then in a pause, in a profound look, in a sudden avoidance. In quite a little while Kipps also had learnt the pause, the profound look, the sudden avoidance, that final refinement of spirituality, impressionistic piety. And the True Gentleman is patriotic also. When one saw Coote lifting his hat to the National Anthem, then perhaps one got a glimpse of what patriotic emotions, what worship, the polish of a gentleman may hide. Or singing out his deep notes against the Hosts of Midian, in the St. Stylites choir; then indeed you plumbed his spiritual side. Christian, dost thou heed them, On the holy ground, How the hosts of Mid-i-an, Prowl and prowl around! Christian, up and smai-it them.... But these were but gleams. For the rest, Religion, Nationality, Passion, Money, Politics; much more so those cardinal issues, Birth and Death, the True Gentleman skirted about, and became facially rigid towards and ceased to speak and panted and blew. "One doesn't talk of that sort of thing," Coote would say with a gesture of the knuckly hand. "O' course," Kipps would reply, with an equal significance. Profundities. Deep as it were, blowing to deep. One does not talk, but on the other hand one is punctilious to do. Actions speak. Kipps--in spite of the fact that the Walshinghams were more than a little lax--Kipps, who had formerly flitted Sunday after Sunday from one Folkestone church to another, had now a sitting of his own, paid for duly at Saint Stylites. There he was to be seen, always at the surplice evening service, and sometimes of a morning, dressed with a sober precision, and with an eye on Coote in the chancel. No difficulties now about finding the place in his book. He became a communicant again--he had lapsed soon after his confirmation when the young lady in the costume-room, who was his adopted sister, left the Emporium--and he would sometimes go around to the Vestry for Coote after the service. One evening he was introduced to the Hon. and Rev. Densemore. He was much too confused to say anything, and the noble cleric had nothing to say, but indisputably they were introduced.... No! you must not imagine our national ideal of a gentleman is without its "serious side," without even its stern and uncompromising side. The imagination no doubt refuses to see Coote displaying extraordinary refinements of courage upon the stricken field, but in the walks of peace there is sometimes sore need of sternness. Charitable as one may be, one must admit there are people who _do_ things, impossible things; people who place themselves "out of it" in countless ways; people, moreover, who are by a sort of predestination out of it from the beginning, and against these Society has invented a terrible protection for its Cootery, the Cut. The cut is no joke for anyone. It is excommunication. You may be cut by an individual, you may be cut by a set or you may be--and this is so tragic that beautiful romances have been written about it--"Cut by the County." One figures Coote discharging this last duty and cutting somebody--Coote, erect and pale, never speaking, going past with eyes of pitiless slate, lower jaw protruding a little, face pursed up and cold and stiff.... It never dawned upon Kipps that he would one day have to face this terrible front, to be to Coote not only as one dead, but as one gone more than a stage or so in decay, cut and passed, banned and outcast for ever. Yet so it was to be! One cannot hide any longer that all this fine progress of Kipps is doomed to end in collapse. So far indeed you have seen him ascend. You have seen him becoming more refined and careful day by day, more carefully dressed, less clumsy in the ways and methods of social life. You have seen the gulf widening between himself and his former low associates. I have brought you at last to the vision of him, faultlessly dressed and posed, in an atmosphere of candlelight and chanting, in his own sitting in one of the most fashionable churches in Folkestone.... All the time I have refrained from the lightest touch upon the tragic note that must now creep into my tale. Yet the net of his low connections has been about his feet, and moreover there was something interwoven in his being.... CHAPTER VI DISCORDS 1 One day Kipps set out upon his newly-mastered bicycle to New Romney to break the news of his engagement to his Uncle and Aunt--this time positively. He was now a finished cyclist, but as yet an unseasoned one; the southwest wind, even in its summer guise, as one meets it in the Marsh, is the equivalent of a reasonable hill, and ever and again he got off and refreshed himself by a spell of walking. He was walking just outside New Romney preparatory to his triumphal entry (one hand off) when abruptly he came upon Ann Pornick. It chanced he was thinking about her at the time. He had been thinking curious things; whether, after all, the atmosphere of New Romney and the Marsh had not some difference, some faint impalpable quality that was missing in the great and fashionable world of Folkestone behind there on the hill. Here there was a homeliness, a familiarity. He had noted as he passed that old Mr. Cliffordown's gate had been mended with a fresh piece of

new

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

was a touch of motherliness in her feelings towards him. But his upbringing and his associations had been, she diagnosed, "awful." At New Romney she glanced but little; that was remote. But in her inventory--she went over him as one might go over a newly taken house, with impartial thoroughness--she discovered more proximate influences, surprising intimations of nocturnal "sing-songs"--she pictured it as almost shocking that Kipps should sing to the banjo--much low-grade wisdom treasured from a person called Buggins--"Who _is_ Buggins?" said Helen--vague figures of indisputable vulgarity, Pierce and Carshot, and more particularly, a very terrible social phenomenon, Chitterlow. Chitterlow blazed upon them with unheralded oppressive brilliance the first time they were abroad together. They were going along the front of the Leas to see a school play in Sandgate--at the last moment Mrs. Walshingham had been unable to come with them--when Chitterlow loomed up into the new world. He was wearing the suit of striped flannel and the straw hat that had followed Kipps' payment in advance for his course in elocution, his hands were deep in his side pockets and animated the corners of his jacket, and his attentive gaze at the passing loungers, the faint smile under his boldly drawn nose, showed him engaged in studying character--no doubt for some forthcoming play. "What HO!" said he, at the sight of Kipps, and swept off the straw hat with so ample a clutch of his great, flat hand that it suggested to Helen's startled mind a conjurer about to palm a half-penny. "'Ello, Chitt'low," said Kipps a little awkwardly and not saluting. Chitterlow hesitated. "Half a mo', my boy," he said, and arrested Kipps by extending a large hand over his chest. "Excuse me, my dear," he said, bowing like his Russian count by way of apology to Helen and with a smile that would have killed at a hundred yards. He affected a semi-confidential grouping of himself and Kipps while Helen stood in white amazement. "About that play," he said. "'Ow about it?" asked Kipps, acutely aware of Helen. "It's all right," said Chitterlow. "There's a strong smell of syndicate in the air, I may tell you--Strong." "That's aw right," said Kipps. "You needn't tell everybody," said Chitterlow with a transitory, confidential hand to his mouth, which pointed the application of the "everybody" just a trifle too strongly. "But I think it's coming off. However----. I mustn't detain you now. So long. You'll come 'round, eh?" "Right you are," said Kipps. "To-night?" "At eight." And then, and more in the manner of a Russian prince than any common count, Chitterlow bowed and withdrew. Just for a moment he allowed a conquering eye to challenge Helen's and noted her for a girl of quality.... There was a silence between our lovers for a space. "That," said Kipps with an allusive movement of the head, "was Chitterlow." "Is he--a friend of yours?" "In a way.... You see--I met 'im. Leastways 'e met me. Run into me with a bicycle, 'e did, and so we got talking together." He tried to appear at his ease. The young lady scrutinised his profile. "What is he?" "'E's a Nacter chap," said Kipps. "Leastways 'e writes plays." "And sells them?" "Partly." "Whom to?" "Different people. Shares he sells.... It's all right, reely--I meant to tell you about him before." Helen looked over her shoulder to catch a view of Chitterlow's retreating aspect. It did not compel her complete confidence. She turned to her lover and said in a tone of quiet authority, "You must tell me all about Chitterlow. Now." The explanation began.... The School Play came almost as a relief to Kipps. In the flusterment of going in he could almost forget for a time his Laocoon struggle to explain, and in the intervals he did his best to keep forgetting. But Helen, with a gentle insistence, resumed the explanation of Chitterlow as they returned towards Folkestone. Chitterlow was confoundedly difficult to explain. You could hardly imagine! There was an almost motherly anxiety in Helen's manner, blended with the resolution of a schoolmistress to get to the bottom of the affair. Kipps' ears were soon quite brightly red. "Have you seen one of his plays?" "'E's tole me about one." "But on the stage." "No. He 'asn't 'ad any on the stage yet. That's all coming...." "Promise me," she said in conclusion, "you won't do anything without consulting me." And of course Kipps promised. "Oo--no!" They went on their way in silence. "One can't know everybody," said Helen in general. "Of course," said Kipps; "in a sort of way it was him that helped me to my money." And he indicated in a confused manner the story of the advertisement. "I don't like to drop 'im all at once," he added. Helen was silent for a space, and when she spoke she went off at a tangent. "We shall live in London--soon," she remarked. "It's only while we are here." It was the first intimation she gave him of their post-nuptial prospects. "We shall have a nice little flat somewhere, not too far west, and there we shall build up a circle of our own." 2 All that declining summer Kipps was the pupil lover. He made an extraordinarily open secret of his desire for self-improvement; indeed Helen had to hint once or twice that his modest frankness was excessive, and all this new circle of friends did, each after his or her manner, everything that was possible to supplement Helen's efforts and help him to ease and skill in the more cultivated circles to which he had come. Coote was still the chief teacher, the tutor--there are so many little difficulties that a man may take to another man that he would not care to propound to the woman he loves--but they were all, so to speak, upon the staff. Even the freckled girl said to him once in a pleasant way, "You mustn't say "contre temps," you must say "contraytom,"" when he borrowed that expression from "Manners and Rules," and she tried at his own suggestion to give him clear ideas upon the subject of "as" and "has." A certain confusion between these words was becoming evident, the first fruits of a lesson from Chitterlow on the aspirate. Hitherto he had discarded that dangerous letter almost altogether, but now he would pull up at words beginning with "h" and draw a sawing breath--rather like a startled kitten--and then aspirate with vigour. Said Kipps one day, "_As_ 'e?--I should say, ah--Has 'e? Ye know I got a lot of difficulty over them two words, which is which?" "Well, 'as' is a conjunction and 'has' is a verb." "I know," said Kipps, "but when is 'has' a conjunction and when is 'as' a verb?" "Well," said the freckled girl, preparing to be very lucid. "It's _has_ when it means one has, meaning having, but if it isn't it's _as_. As for instance one says 'e--I mean _he_--He has. But one says 'as he has.'" "I see," said Kipps. "So I ought to say 'as 'e?'" "No, if you are asking a question you say _has_ 'e--I mean he--'as he?" She blushed quite brightly, but still clung to her air of lucidity. "I see," said Kipps. He was about to say something further, but he desisted. "I got it much clearer now. _Has_ 'e? _Has_ 'e as. Yes." "If you remember about having." "Oo I will," said Kipps. Miss Coote specialised in Kipps' artistic development. She had early found an opinion that he had considerable artistic sensibility, his remarks on her work had struck her as decidedly intelligent, and whenever he called around to see them she would show him some work of art, now an illustrated book, now perhaps a colour print of a Botticelli, now the Hundred Best Paintings, now "Academy Pictures," now a German art handbook and now some magazine of furniture and design. "I know you like these things," she used to say, and Kipps said, "Oo I _do_." He soon acquired a little armoury of appreciative sayings. When presently the Walshinghams took him up to the Arts and Crafts, his deportment was intelligent in the extreme. For a time he kept a wary silence and suddenly pitched upon a colour print. "That's rather nace," he said to Mrs. Walshingham. "That lill' thing. There." He always said things like that by preference to the mother rather than the daughter unless he was perfectly sure. He quite took to Mrs. Walshingham. He was impressed by her conspicuous tact and refinement; it seemed to him that the ladylike could go no further. She was always dressed with a delicate fussiness that was never disarranged and even a sort of faded quality about her hair and face and bearing and emotions contributed to her effect. Kipps was not a big man, and commonly he did not feel a big man, but with Mrs. Walshingham he always felt enormous and distended, as though he was a navvy who had taken some disagreeable poison which puffed him up inside his skin as a preliminary to bursting. He felt, too, as though he had been rolled in clay and his hair dressed with gum. And he felt that his voice was strident and his accent like somebody swinging a crowded pig's pail in a free and careless manner. All this increased and enforced his respect for her. Her hand, which flitted often and again to his hand and arm, was singularly well shaped and cool. "Arthur," she called him from the very beginning. She did not so much positively teach and tell him as tactfully guide and infect him. Her conversation was not so much didactic as exemplary. She would say, "I _do_ like people to do" so and so. She would tell him anecdotes of nice things done, of gentlemanly feats of graceful consideration; she would record her neat observations of people in trains and omnibuses; how, for example, a man had passed her change to the conductor, "quite a common man he looked," but he had lifted his hat. She stamped Kipps so deeply with the hat-raising habit that he would uncover if he found himself in the same railway ticket office with a lady had to stand ceremoniously until the difficulties of change drove him to an apologetic provisional oblique resumption of his headgear.... And robbing these things of any air of personal application, she threw about them an abundant talk about her two children--she called them her Twin Jewels quite frequently--about their gifts, their temperaments, their ambition, their need of opportunity. They needed opportunity, she would say, as other people needed air.... In his conversations with her Kipps always assumed, and she seemed to assume, that she was to join that home in London Helen foreshadowed, but he was surprised one day to gather that this was not to be the case. "It wouldn't do," said Helen, with decision. "We want to make a circle of our own." "But won't she be a bit lonely down here?" asked Kipps. "There's the Waces, and Mrs. Prebble and Mrs. Bindon Botting and--lots of people she knows." And Helen dismissed this possibility.... Young Walshingham's share in the educational syndicate was smaller. But he shone out when they went to London on that Arts and Crafts expedition. Then this rising man of affairs showed Kipps how to buy the more theatrical weeklies for consumption in the train, how to buy and what to buy in the way of cigarettes with gold tips and shilling cigars, and how to order hock for lunch and sparkling Moselle for dinner, how to calculate the fare of a hansom cab--penny a minute while he goes--how to look intelligently at an hotel tape, and how to sit still in a train like a thoughtful man instead of talking like a fool and giving yourself away. And he, too, would glance at the good time coming when they were to be in London for good and all. That prospect expanded and developed particulars. It presently took up a large part of Helen's conversation. Her conversations with Kipps were never of a grossly sentimental sort; there was a shyness of speech in that matter with both of them, but these new adumbrations were at least as interesting and not so directly disagreeable as the clear-cut intimations of personal defect that for a time had so greatly chastened Kipps' delight in her presence. The future presented itself with an almost perfect frankness as a joint campaign of Mrs. Walshingham's Twin Jewels upon the Great World, with Kipps in the capacity of baggage and supply. They would still be dreadfully poor, of course--this amazed Kipps, but he said nothing--until "Brudderkins" began to succeed, but if they were clever and lucky they might do a great deal. When Helen spoke of London a brooding look, as of one who contemplates a distant country, came into her eyes. Already it seemed they had the nucleus of a set. Brudderkins was a member of the Theatrical Judges, an excellent and influential little club of journalists and literary people, and he knew Shimer and Stargate and Whiffle, of the "Red Dragon," and besides these were the Revels. They knew the Revels quite well. Sidney Revel before his rapid rise to prominence as a writer of epigrammatic essays that were quite above the ordinary public, had been an assistant master at one of the best Folkestone schools, Brudderkins had brought him home to tea several times, and it was he had first suggested Helen should try and write. "It's perfectly easy," Sidney had said. He had been writing occasional things for the evening papers, and for the weekly reviews even at that time. Then he had gone up to London and had almost unavoidedly become a dramatic critic. Those brilliant essays had followed, and then "Red Hearts a-Beating," the romance that had made him. It was a tale of spirited adventure, full of youth and beauty and na ve passion and generous devotion, bold, as the _Bookman_ said, and frank in places, but never in the slightest degree morbid. He had met and married an American widow with quite a lot of money, and they had made a very distinct place for themselves, Kipps learnt, in the literary and artistic society of London. Helen seemed to dwell on the Revels a great deal; it was her exemplary story, and when she spoke of Sidney--she often called him Sidney--she would become thoughtful. She spoke most of him naturally because she had still to meet Mrs. Revel.... Certainly they would be in the world in no time, even if the distant connection with the Beaupres family came to nothing. Kipps gathered that with his marriage and the movement to London they were to undergo that subtle change of name Coote had first adumbrated. They were to become "Cuyps," Mr. and Mrs. Cuyps. Or, was it Cuyp? "It'll be rum at first," said Kipps. "I dessay I shall soon get into it."... So in their several ways they all contributed to enlarge and refine and exercise the intelligence of Kipps. And behind all these other influences, and, as it were, presiding over and correcting these influences, was Kipps' nearest friend, Coote, a sort of master of the ceremonies. You figure his face, blowing slightly with solicitude, his slate coloured, projecting but not unkindly eye intent upon our hero. The thing he thought was going off admirably. He studied Kipps' character immensely. He would discuss him with his sister, with Mrs. Walshingham, with the freckled girl, with anyone who would stand it. "He is an interesting character," he would say, "likable--a sort of gentleman by instinct. He takes to all these things. He improves every day. He'll soon get Sang Froid. We took him up just in time. He wants now--well----. Next year, perhaps, if there is a good Extension Literature course, he might go in for it. He wants to go in for something like that." "He's going in for his bicycle now," said Mrs. Walshingham. "That's all right for summer," said Coote, "but he wants to go in for some serious, intellectual interest, something to take him out of himself a little more. Savoir Faire and self-forgetfulness is more than half the secret of Sang Froid." 3 The world as Coote presented it was in part an endorsement, in part an amplification and in part a rectification of the world of Kipps, the world that derived from the old couple in New Romney and had been developed in the Emporium; the world, in fact, of common British life. There was the same subtle sense of social graduation that had moved Mrs. Kipps to prohibit intercourse with labourers' children and the same dread of anything "common" that had kept the personal quality of Mr. Shalford's establishment so high. But now a certain disagreeable doubt about Kipps' own position was removed and he stood with Coote inside the sphere of gentlemen assured. Within the sphere of gentlemen there are distinctions of rank indeed, but none of class; there are the Big People and the modest, refined, gentlemanly little people like Coote, who may even dabble in the professions and counterless trades; there are lords and magnificences, and there are gentle folk who have to manage, but they can all call on one another, they preserve a general equality of deportment throughout, they constitute that great state within the state, Society, or at any rate they make believe they do. "But reely," said the Pupil, "not what you call being in Society?" "Yes," said Coote. "Of course, down here one doesn't see much of it, but there's local society. It has the same rules." "Calling and all that?" "Precisely," said Coote. Kipps thought, whistled a bar, and suddenly broached a question of conscience. "I often wonder," he said, "whether I oughtn't to dress for dinner--when I'm alone 'ere." Coote protruded his lips and reflected. "Not full dress," he adjudicated; "that would be a little excessive. But you should _change_, you know. Put on a mess jacket and that sort of thing--easy dress. That is what _I_ should do, certainly, if I wasn't in harness--and poor." He coughed modestly and patted his hair behind. And after that the washing bill of Kipps quadrupled, and he was to be seen at times by the bandstand with his light summer overcoat unbuttoned to give a glimpse of his nice white tie. He and Coote would be smoking the gold-tipped cigarettes young Walshingham had prescribed as _chic_, and appreciating the music highly. "That's--puff--a very nice bit," Kipps would say, or better, "That's nace." And at the first grunts of the loyal anthem up they stood with religiously uplifted hats. Whatever else you might call them, you could never call them disloyal. The boundary of Society was admittedly very close to Coote and Kipps, and a leading solicitude of the true gentleman was to detect clearly those "beneath" him, and to behave towards them in a proper spirit. "It's jest there it's so 'ard for me," said Kipps. He had to cultivate a certain "distance," to acquire altogether the art of checking the presumption of bounders and old friends. It was difficult, Coote admitted. "That's what, so harkward--I mean awkward." "I got mixed up with this lot 'ere," said Kipps. "You could give them a hint," said Coote. "'Ow?" "Oh!--the occasion will suggest something." The occasion came one early closing night when Kipps was sitting in a canopy chair near the bandstand, with his summer overcoat fully open and a new Gibus pulled slightly forward over his brow, waiting for Coote. They were to hear the band for an hour and then go down to assist Miss Coote and the freckled girl in trying over some of Beethoven's duets, if they remembered them, that is, sufficiently well. And as Kipps lounged back in his chair and occupied his mind with his favourite amusement on such evenings, which consisted chiefly in supposing that everyone about him was wondering who he was, came a rude rap at the canvas back and the voice of Pierce. "It's nice to be a gentleman," said Pierce, and swung a penny chair into position while Buggins appeared smiling agreeably on the other side and leant upon his stick. _He was smoking a common briar pipe!_ Two real ladies, very fashionably dressed and sitting close at hand, glanced quickly at Pierce, and then away again, and it was evident _their_ wonder was at an end. "_He's_ all right," said Buggins, removing his pipe and surveying Kipps. "'Ello, Buggins!" said Kipps, not too cordially. "'Ow goes it?" "All right. Holiday's next week. If you don't look out, Kipps, I shall be on the Continong before you. Eh?" "You going t' Boologne?" "Ra-ther. Parley vous Francey. You bet." "_I_ shall 'ave a bit of a run over there one of these days," said Kipps. There came a pause. Pierce applied the top of his stick to his mouth for a space and regarded Kipps. Then he glanced at the people about them. "I say, Kipps," he said in a distinct, loud voice, "see 'er Ladyship lately?" Kipps perceived the audience was to be impressed, but he responded half-heartedly, "No, I 'aven't," he said. "She was along of Sir William the other night," said Pierce, still loud and clear, "and she asked to be remembered to you." It seemed to Kipps that one of the two ladies smiled faintly and said something to the other, and then certainly they glanced at Pierce. Kipps flushed scarlet. "_Did_ she?" he answered. Buggins laughed good-humouredly over his pipe. "Sir William suffers a lot from his gout," Pierce continued unabashed. (Buggins much amused with his pipe between his teeth.) Kipps became aware of Coote at hand. Coote nodded rather distantly to Pierce. "Hope I haven't kept you waiting, Kipps," he said. "I kep' a chair for you," said Kipps and removed a guardian foot. "But you've got your friends," said Coote. "Oh! _we_ don't mind," said Pierce cordially, "the more the merrier," and, "why don't you get a chair, Buggins?" Buggins shook his head in a sort of aside to Pierce and Coote coughed behind his hand. "Been kep' late at business?" asked Pierce. Coote turned quite pale and pretended not to hear. His eyes sought in space for a time and with a convulsive movement he recognised a distant acquaintance and raised his hat. Pierce had also become a little pale. He addressed himself to Kipps in an undertone. "Mr. Coote, isn't he?" he asked. Coote addressed himself to Kipps directly and exclusively. His manner had the calm of extreme tension. "I'm rather late," he said. "I think we ought almost to be going on _now_." Kipps stood up. "That's all right," he said. "Which way are you going?" said Pierce, standing also, and brushing some crumbs of cigarette ash from his sleeve. For a moment Coote was breathless. "Thank you," he said, and gasped. Then he delivered the necessary blow; "I don't think we're in need of your society, you know," and turned away. Kipps found himself falling over chairs and things in the wake of Coote, and then they were clear of the crowd. For a space Coote said nothing; then he remarked abruptly and quite angrily for him, "I think that was _awful_ Cheek!" Kipps made no reply.... The whole thing was an interesting little object lesson in distance, and it stuck in the front of Kipps' mind for a long time. He had particularly vivid the face of Pierce, with an expression between astonishment and anger. He felt as though he had struck Pierce in the face under circumstances that gave Pierce no power to reply. He did not attend very much to the duets and even forgot at the end of one of them to say how perfectly lovely it was. 4 But you must not imagine that the national ideal of a gentleman, as Coote developed it, was all a matter of deportment and selectness, a mere isolation from debasing associations. There is a Serious Side, a deeper aspect of the true, True Gentleman. The True Gentleman does not wear his heart on his sleeve. He is a polished surface above deeps. For example, he is deeply religious, as Coote was, as Mrs. Walshingham was, but outside the walls of a church it never appears, except perhaps now and then in a pause, in a profound look, in a sudden avoidance. In quite a little while Kipps also had learnt the pause, the profound look, the sudden avoidance, that final refinement of spirituality, impressionistic piety. And the True Gentleman is patriotic also. When one saw Coote lifting his hat to the National Anthem, then perhaps one got a glimpse of what patriotic emotions, what worship, the polish of a gentleman may hide. Or singing out his deep notes against the Hosts of Midian, in the St. Stylites choir; then indeed you plumbed his spiritual side. Christian, dost thou heed them, On the holy ground, How the hosts of Mid-i-an, Prowl and prowl around! Christian, up and smai-it them.... But these were but gleams. For the rest, Religion, Nationality, Passion, Money, Politics; much more so those cardinal issues, Birth and Death, the True Gentleman skirted about, and became facially rigid towards and ceased to speak and panted and blew. "One doesn't talk of that sort of thing," Coote would say with a gesture of the knuckly hand. "O' course," Kipps would reply, with an equal significance. Profundities. Deep as it were, blowing to deep. One does not talk, but on the other hand one is punctilious to do. Actions speak. Kipps--in spite of the fact that the Walshinghams were more than a little lax--Kipps, who had formerly flitted Sunday after Sunday from one Folkestone church to another, had now a sitting of his own, paid for duly at Saint Stylites. There he was to be seen, always at the surplice evening service, and sometimes of a morning, dressed with a sober precision, and with an eye on Coote in the chancel. No difficulties now about finding the place in his book. He became a communicant again--he had lapsed soon after his confirmation when the young lady in the costume-room, who was his adopted sister, left the Emporium--and he would sometimes go around to the Vestry for Coote after the service. One evening he was introduced to the Hon. and Rev. Densemore. He was much too confused to say anything, and the noble cleric had nothing to say, but indisputably they were introduced.... No! you must not imagine our national ideal of a gentleman is without its "serious side," without even its stern and uncompromising side. The imagination no doubt refuses to see Coote displaying extraordinary refinements of courage upon the stricken field, but in the walks of peace there is sometimes sore need of sternness. Charitable as one may be, one must admit there are people who _do_ things, impossible things; people who place themselves "out of it" in countless ways; people, moreover, who are by a sort of predestination out of it from the beginning, and against these Society has invented a terrible protection for its Cootery, the Cut. The cut is no joke for anyone. It is excommunication. You may be cut by an individual, you may be cut by a set or you may be--and this is so tragic that beautiful romances have been written about it--"Cut by the County." One figures Coote discharging this last duty and cutting somebody--Coote, erect and pale, never speaking, going past with eyes of pitiless slate, lower jaw protruding a little, face pursed up and cold and stiff.... It never dawned upon Kipps that he would one day have to face this terrible front, to be to Coote not only as one dead, but as one gone more than a stage or so in decay, cut and passed, banned and outcast for ever. Yet so it was to be! One cannot hide any longer that all this fine progress of Kipps is doomed to end in collapse. So far indeed you have seen him ascend. You have seen him becoming more refined and careful day by day, more carefully dressed, less clumsy in the ways and methods of social life. You have seen the gulf widening between himself and his former low associates. I have brought you at last to the vision of him, faultlessly dressed and posed, in an atmosphere of candlelight and chanting, in his own sitting in one of the most fashionable churches in Folkestone.... All the time I have refrained from the lightest touch upon the tragic note that must now creep into my tale. Yet the net of his low connections has been about his feet, and moreover there was something interwoven in his being.... CHAPTER VI DISCORDS 1 One day Kipps set out upon his newly-mastered bicycle to New Romney to break the news of his engagement to his Uncle and Aunt--this time positively. He was now a finished cyclist, but as yet an unseasoned one; the southwest wind, even in its summer guise, as one meets it in the Marsh, is the equivalent of a reasonable hill, and ever and again he got off and refreshed himself by a spell of walking. He was walking just outside New Romney preparatory to his triumphal entry (one hand off) when abruptly he came upon Ann Pornick. It chanced he was thinking about her at the time. He had been thinking curious things; whether, after all, the atmosphere of New Romney and the Marsh had not some difference, some faint impalpable quality that was missing in the great and fashionable world of Folkestone behind there on the hill. Here there was a homeliness, a familiarity. He had noted as he passed that old Mr. Cliffordown's gate had been mended with a fresh piece of

ourselves

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

was a touch of motherliness in her feelings towards him. But his upbringing and his associations had been, she diagnosed, "awful." At New Romney she glanced but little; that was remote. But in her inventory--she went over him as one might go over a newly taken house, with impartial thoroughness--she discovered more proximate influences, surprising intimations of nocturnal "sing-songs"--she pictured it as almost shocking that Kipps should sing to the banjo--much low-grade wisdom treasured from a person called Buggins--"Who _is_ Buggins?" said Helen--vague figures of indisputable vulgarity, Pierce and Carshot, and more particularly, a very terrible social phenomenon, Chitterlow. Chitterlow blazed upon them with unheralded oppressive brilliance the first time they were abroad together. They were going along the front of the Leas to see a school play in Sandgate--at the last moment Mrs. Walshingham had been unable to come with them--when Chitterlow loomed up into the new world. He was wearing the suit of striped flannel and the straw hat that had followed Kipps' payment in advance for his course in elocution, his hands were deep in his side pockets and animated the corners of his jacket, and his attentive gaze at the passing loungers, the faint smile under his boldly drawn nose, showed him engaged in studying character--no doubt for some forthcoming play. "What HO!" said he, at the sight of Kipps, and swept off the straw hat with so ample a clutch of his great, flat hand that it suggested to Helen's startled mind a conjurer about to palm a half-penny. "'Ello, Chitt'low," said Kipps a little awkwardly and not saluting. Chitterlow hesitated. "Half a mo', my boy," he said, and arrested Kipps by extending a large hand over his chest. "Excuse me, my dear," he said, bowing like his Russian count by way of apology to Helen and with a smile that would have killed at a hundred yards. He affected a semi-confidential grouping of himself and Kipps while Helen stood in white amazement. "About that play," he said. "'Ow about it?" asked Kipps, acutely aware of Helen. "It's all right," said Chitterlow. "There's a strong smell of syndicate in the air, I may tell you--Strong." "That's aw right," said Kipps. "You needn't tell everybody," said Chitterlow with a transitory, confidential hand to his mouth, which pointed the application of the "everybody" just a trifle too strongly. "But I think it's coming off. However----. I mustn't detain you now. So long. You'll come 'round, eh?" "Right you are," said Kipps. "To-night?" "At eight." And then, and more in the manner of a Russian prince than any common count, Chitterlow bowed and withdrew. Just for a moment he allowed a conquering eye to challenge Helen's and noted her for a girl of quality.... There was a silence between our lovers for a space. "That," said Kipps with an allusive movement of the head, "was Chitterlow." "Is he--a friend of yours?" "In a way.... You see--I met 'im. Leastways 'e met me. Run into me with a bicycle, 'e did, and so we got talking together." He tried to appear at his ease. The young lady scrutinised his profile. "What is he?" "'E's a Nacter chap," said Kipps. "Leastways 'e writes plays." "And sells them?" "Partly." "Whom to?" "Different people. Shares he sells.... It's all right, reely--I meant to tell you about him before." Helen looked over her shoulder to catch a view of Chitterlow's retreating aspect. It did not compel her complete confidence. She turned to her lover and said in a tone of quiet authority, "You must tell me all about Chitterlow. Now." The explanation began.... The School Play came almost as a relief to Kipps. In the flusterment of going in he could almost forget for a time his Laocoon struggle to explain, and in the intervals he did his best to keep forgetting. But Helen, with a gentle insistence, resumed the explanation of Chitterlow as they returned towards Folkestone. Chitterlow was confoundedly difficult to explain. You could hardly imagine! There was an almost motherly anxiety in Helen's manner, blended with the resolution of a schoolmistress to get to the bottom of the affair. Kipps' ears were soon quite brightly red. "Have you seen one of his plays?" "'E's tole me about one." "But on the stage." "No. He 'asn't 'ad any on the stage yet. That's all coming...." "Promise me," she said in conclusion, "you won't do anything without consulting me." And of course Kipps promised. "Oo--no!" They went on their way in silence. "One can't know everybody," said Helen in general. "Of course," said Kipps; "in a sort of way it was him that helped me to my money." And he indicated in a confused manner the story of the advertisement. "I don't like to drop 'im all at once," he added. Helen was silent for a space, and when she spoke she went off at a tangent. "We shall live in London--soon," she remarked. "It's only while we are here." It was the first intimation she gave him of their post-nuptial prospects. "We shall have a nice little flat somewhere, not too far west, and there we shall build up a circle of our own." 2 All that declining summer Kipps was the pupil lover. He made an extraordinarily open secret of his desire for self-improvement; indeed Helen had to hint once or twice that his modest frankness was excessive, and all this new circle of friends did, each after his or her manner, everything that was possible to supplement Helen's efforts and help him to ease and skill in the more cultivated circles to which he had come. Coote was still the chief teacher, the tutor--there are so many little difficulties that a man may take to another man that he would not care to propound to the woman he loves--but they were all, so to speak, upon the staff. Even the freckled girl said to him once in a pleasant way, "You mustn't say "contre temps," you must say "contraytom,"" when he borrowed that expression from "Manners and Rules," and she tried at his own suggestion to give him clear ideas upon the subject of "as" and "has." A certain confusion between these words was becoming evident, the first fruits of a lesson from Chitterlow on the aspirate. Hitherto he had discarded that dangerous letter almost altogether, but now he would pull up at words beginning with "h" and draw a sawing breath--rather like a startled kitten--and then aspirate with vigour. Said Kipps one day, "_As_ 'e?--I should say, ah--Has 'e? Ye know I got a lot of difficulty over them two words, which is which?" "Well, 'as' is a conjunction and 'has' is a verb." "I know," said Kipps, "but when is 'has' a conjunction and when is 'as' a verb?" "Well," said the freckled girl, preparing to be very lucid. "It's _has_ when it means one has, meaning having, but if it isn't it's _as_. As for instance one says 'e--I mean _he_--He has. But one says 'as he has.'" "I see," said Kipps. "So I ought to say 'as 'e?'" "No, if you are asking a question you say _has_ 'e--I mean he--'as he?" She blushed quite brightly, but still clung to her air of lucidity. "I see," said Kipps. He was about to say something further, but he desisted. "I got it much clearer now. _Has_ 'e? _Has_ 'e as. Yes." "If you remember about having." "Oo I will," said Kipps. Miss Coote specialised in Kipps' artistic development. She had early found an opinion that he had considerable artistic sensibility, his remarks on her work had struck her as decidedly intelligent, and whenever he called around to see them she would show him some work of art, now an illustrated book, now perhaps a colour print of a Botticelli, now the Hundred Best Paintings, now "Academy Pictures," now a German art handbook and now some magazine of furniture and design. "I know you like these things," she used to say, and Kipps said, "Oo I _do_." He soon acquired a little armoury of appreciative sayings. When presently the Walshinghams took him up to the Arts and Crafts, his deportment was intelligent in the extreme. For a time he kept a wary silence and suddenly pitched upon a colour print. "That's rather nace," he said to Mrs. Walshingham. "That lill' thing. There." He always said things like that by preference to the mother rather than the daughter unless he was perfectly sure. He quite took to Mrs. Walshingham. He was impressed by her conspicuous tact and refinement; it seemed to him that the ladylike could go no further. She was always dressed with a delicate fussiness that was never disarranged and even a sort of faded quality about her hair and face and bearing and emotions contributed to her effect. Kipps was not a big man, and commonly he did not feel a big man, but with Mrs. Walshingham he always felt enormous and distended, as though he was a navvy who had taken some disagreeable poison which puffed him up inside his skin as a preliminary to bursting. He felt, too, as though he had been rolled in clay and his hair dressed with gum. And he felt that his voice was strident and his accent like somebody swinging a crowded pig's pail in a free and careless manner. All this increased and enforced his respect for her. Her hand, which flitted often and again to his hand and arm, was singularly well shaped and cool. "Arthur," she called him from the very beginning. She did not so much positively teach and tell him as tactfully guide and infect him. Her conversation was not so much didactic as exemplary. She would say, "I _do_ like people to do" so and so. She would tell him anecdotes of nice things done, of gentlemanly feats of graceful consideration; she would record her neat observations of people in trains and omnibuses; how, for example, a man had passed her change to the conductor, "quite a common man he looked," but he had lifted his hat. She stamped Kipps so deeply with the hat-raising habit that he would uncover if he found himself in the same railway ticket office with a lady had to stand ceremoniously until the difficulties of change drove him to an apologetic provisional oblique resumption of his headgear.... And robbing these things of any air of personal application, she threw about them an abundant talk about her two children--she called them her Twin Jewels quite frequently--about their gifts, their temperaments, their ambition, their need of opportunity. They needed opportunity, she would say, as other people needed air.... In his conversations with her Kipps always assumed, and she seemed to assume, that she was to join that home in London Helen foreshadowed, but he was surprised one day to gather that this was not to be the case. "It wouldn't do," said Helen, with decision. "We want to make a circle of our own." "But won't she be a bit lonely down here?" asked Kipps. "There's the Waces, and Mrs. Prebble and Mrs. Bindon Botting and--lots of people she knows." And Helen dismissed this possibility.... Young Walshingham's share in the educational syndicate was smaller. But he shone out when they went to London on that Arts and Crafts expedition. Then this rising man of affairs showed Kipps how to buy the more theatrical weeklies for consumption in the train, how to buy and what to buy in the way of cigarettes with gold tips and shilling cigars, and how to order hock for lunch and sparkling Moselle for dinner, how to calculate the fare of a hansom cab--penny a minute while he goes--how to look intelligently at an hotel tape, and how to sit still in a train like a thoughtful man instead of talking like a fool and giving yourself away. And he, too, would glance at the good time coming when they were to be in London for good and all. That prospect expanded and developed particulars. It presently took up a large part of Helen's conversation. Her conversations with Kipps were never of a grossly sentimental sort; there was a shyness of speech in that matter with both of them, but these new adumbrations were at least as interesting and not so directly disagreeable as the clear-cut intimations of personal defect that for a time had so greatly chastened Kipps' delight in her presence. The future presented itself with an almost perfect frankness as a joint campaign of Mrs. Walshingham's Twin Jewels upon the Great World, with Kipps in the capacity of baggage and supply. They would still be dreadfully poor, of course--this amazed Kipps, but he said nothing--until "Brudderkins" began to succeed, but if they were clever and lucky they might do a great deal. When Helen spoke of London a brooding look, as of one who contemplates a distant country, came into her eyes. Already it seemed they had the nucleus of a set. Brudderkins was a member of the Theatrical Judges, an excellent and influential little club of journalists and literary people, and he knew Shimer and Stargate and Whiffle, of the "Red Dragon," and besides these were the Revels. They knew the Revels quite well. Sidney Revel before his rapid rise to prominence as a writer of epigrammatic essays that were quite above the ordinary public, had been an assistant master at one of the best Folkestone schools, Brudderkins had brought him home to tea several times, and it was he had first suggested Helen should try and write. "It's perfectly easy," Sidney had said. He had been writing occasional things for the evening papers, and for the weekly reviews even at that time. Then he had gone up to London and had almost unavoidedly become a dramatic critic. Those brilliant essays had followed, and then "Red Hearts a-Beating," the romance that had made him. It was a tale of spirited adventure, full of youth and beauty and na ve passion and generous devotion, bold, as the _Bookman_ said, and frank in places, but never in the slightest degree morbid. He had met and married an American widow with quite a lot of money, and they had made a very distinct place for themselves, Kipps learnt, in the literary and artistic society of London. Helen seemed to dwell on the Revels a great deal; it was her exemplary story, and when she spoke of Sidney--she often called him Sidney--she would become thoughtful. She spoke most of him naturally because she had still to meet Mrs. Revel.... Certainly they would be in the world in no time, even if the distant connection with the Beaupres family came to nothing. Kipps gathered that with his marriage and the movement to London they were to undergo that subtle change of name Coote had first adumbrated. They were to become "Cuyps," Mr. and Mrs. Cuyps. Or, was it Cuyp? "It'll be rum at first," said Kipps. "I dessay I shall soon get into it."... So in their several ways they all contributed to enlarge and refine and exercise the intelligence of Kipps. And behind all these other influences, and, as it were, presiding over and correcting these influences, was Kipps' nearest friend, Coote, a sort of master of the ceremonies. You figure his face, blowing slightly with solicitude, his slate coloured, projecting but not unkindly eye intent upon our hero. The thing he thought was going off admirably. He studied Kipps' character immensely. He would discuss him with his sister, with Mrs. Walshingham, with the freckled girl, with anyone who would stand it. "He is an interesting character," he would say, "likable--a sort of gentleman by instinct. He takes to all these things. He improves every day. He'll soon get Sang Froid. We took him up just in time. He wants now--well----. Next year, perhaps, if there is a good Extension Literature course, he might go in for it. He wants to go in for something like that." "He's going in for his bicycle now," said Mrs. Walshingham. "That's all right for summer," said Coote, "but he wants to go in for some serious, intellectual interest, something to take him out of himself a little more. Savoir Faire and self-forgetfulness is more than half the secret of Sang Froid." 3 The world as Coote presented it was in part an endorsement, in part an amplification and in part a rectification of the world of Kipps, the world that derived from the old couple in New Romney and had been developed in the Emporium; the world, in fact, of common British life. There was the same subtle sense of social graduation that had moved Mrs. Kipps to prohibit intercourse with labourers' children and the same dread of anything "common" that had kept the personal quality of Mr. Shalford's establishment so high. But now a certain disagreeable doubt about Kipps' own position was removed and he stood with Coote inside the sphere of gentlemen assured. Within the sphere of gentlemen there are distinctions of rank indeed, but none of class; there are the Big People and the modest, refined, gentlemanly little people like Coote, who may even dabble in the professions and counterless trades; there are lords and magnificences, and there are gentle folk who have to manage, but they can all call on one another, they preserve a general equality of deportment throughout, they constitute that great state within the state, Society, or at any rate they make believe they do. "But reely," said the Pupil, "not what you call being in Society?" "Yes," said Coote. "Of course, down here one doesn't see much of it, but there's local society. It has the same rules." "Calling and all that?" "Precisely," said Coote. Kipps thought, whistled a bar, and suddenly broached a question of conscience. "I often wonder," he said, "whether I oughtn't to dress for dinner--when I'm alone 'ere." Coote protruded his lips and reflected. "Not full dress," he adjudicated; "that would be a little excessive. But you should _change_, you know. Put on a mess jacket and that sort of thing--easy dress. That is what _I_ should do, certainly, if I wasn't in harness--and poor." He coughed modestly and patted his hair behind. And after that the washing bill of Kipps quadrupled, and he was to be seen at times by the bandstand with his light summer overcoat unbuttoned to give a glimpse of his nice white tie. He and Coote would be smoking the gold-tipped cigarettes young Walshingham had prescribed as _chic_, and appreciating the music highly. "That's--puff--a very nice bit," Kipps would say, or better, "That's nace." And at the first grunts of the loyal anthem up they stood with religiously uplifted hats. Whatever else you might call them, you could never call them disloyal. The boundary of Society was admittedly very close to Coote and Kipps, and a leading solicitude of the true gentleman was to detect clearly those "beneath" him, and to behave towards them in a proper spirit. "It's jest there it's so 'ard for me," said Kipps. He had to cultivate a certain "distance," to acquire altogether the art of checking the presumption of bounders and old friends. It was difficult, Coote admitted. "That's what, so harkward--I mean awkward." "I got mixed up with this lot 'ere," said Kipps. "You could give them a hint," said Coote. "'Ow?" "Oh!--the occasion will suggest something." The occasion came one early closing night when Kipps was sitting in a canopy chair near the bandstand, with his summer overcoat fully open and a new Gibus pulled slightly forward over his brow, waiting for Coote. They were to hear the band for an hour and then go down to assist Miss Coote and the freckled girl in trying over some of Beethoven's duets, if they remembered them, that is, sufficiently well. And as Kipps lounged back in his chair and occupied his mind with his favourite amusement on such evenings, which consisted chiefly in supposing that everyone about him was wondering who he was, came a rude rap at the canvas back and the voice of Pierce. "It's nice to be a gentleman," said Pierce, and swung a penny chair into position while Buggins appeared smiling agreeably on the other side and leant upon his stick. _He was smoking a common briar pipe!_ Two real ladies, very fashionably dressed and sitting close at hand, glanced quickly at Pierce, and then away again, and it was evident _their_ wonder was at an end. "_He's_ all right," said Buggins, removing his pipe and surveying Kipps. "'Ello, Buggins!" said Kipps, not too cordially. "'Ow goes it?" "All right. Holiday's next week. If you don't look out, Kipps, I shall be on the Continong before you. Eh?" "You going t' Boologne?" "Ra-ther. Parley vous Francey. You bet." "_I_ shall 'ave a bit of a run over there one of these days," said Kipps. There came a pause. Pierce applied the top of his stick to his mouth for a space and regarded Kipps. Then he glanced at the people about them. "I say, Kipps," he said in a distinct, loud voice, "see 'er Ladyship lately?" Kipps perceived the audience was to be impressed, but he responded half-heartedly, "No, I 'aven't," he said. "She was along of Sir William the other night," said Pierce, still loud and clear, "and she asked to be remembered to you." It seemed to Kipps that one of the two ladies smiled faintly and said something to the other, and then certainly they glanced at Pierce. Kipps flushed scarlet. "_Did_ she?" he answered. Buggins laughed good-humouredly over his pipe. "Sir William suffers a lot from his gout," Pierce continued unabashed. (Buggins much amused with his pipe between his teeth.) Kipps became aware of Coote at hand. Coote nodded rather distantly to Pierce. "Hope I haven't kept you waiting, Kipps," he said. "I kep' a chair for you," said Kipps and removed a guardian foot. "But you've got your friends," said Coote. "Oh! _we_ don't mind," said Pierce cordially, "the more the merrier," and, "why don't you get a chair, Buggins?" Buggins shook his head in a sort of aside to Pierce and Coote coughed behind his hand. "Been kep' late at business?" asked Pierce. Coote turned quite pale and pretended not to hear. His eyes sought in space for a time and with a convulsive movement he recognised a distant acquaintance and raised his hat. Pierce had also become a little pale. He addressed himself to Kipps in an undertone. "Mr. Coote, isn't he?" he asked. Coote addressed himself to Kipps directly and exclusively. His manner had the calm of extreme tension. "I'm rather late," he said. "I think we ought almost to be going on _now_." Kipps stood up. "That's all right," he said. "Which way are you going?" said Pierce, standing also, and brushing some crumbs of cigarette ash from his sleeve. For a moment Coote was breathless. "Thank you," he said, and gasped. Then he delivered the necessary blow; "I don't think we're in need of your society, you know," and turned away. Kipps found himself falling over chairs and things in the wake of Coote, and then they were clear of the crowd. For a space Coote said nothing; then he remarked abruptly and quite angrily for him, "I think that was _awful_ Cheek!" Kipps made no reply.... The whole thing was an interesting little object lesson in distance, and it stuck in the front of Kipps' mind for a long time. He had particularly vivid the face of Pierce, with an expression between astonishment and anger. He felt as though he had struck Pierce in the face under circumstances that gave Pierce no power to reply. He did not attend very much to the duets and even forgot at the end of one of them to say how perfectly lovely it was. 4 But you must not imagine that the national ideal of a gentleman, as Coote developed it, was all a matter of deportment and selectness, a mere isolation from debasing associations. There is a Serious Side, a deeper aspect of the true, True Gentleman. The True Gentleman does not wear his heart on his sleeve. He is a polished surface above deeps. For example, he is deeply religious, as Coote was, as Mrs. Walshingham was, but outside the walls of a church it never appears, except perhaps now and then in a pause, in a profound look, in a sudden avoidance. In quite a little while Kipps also had learnt the pause, the profound look, the sudden avoidance, that final refinement of spirituality, impressionistic piety. And the True Gentleman is patriotic also. When one saw Coote lifting his hat to the National Anthem, then perhaps one got a glimpse of what patriotic emotions, what worship, the polish of a gentleman may hide. Or singing out his deep notes against the Hosts of Midian, in the St. Stylites choir; then indeed you plumbed his spiritual side. Christian, dost thou heed them, On the holy ground, How the hosts of Mid-i-an, Prowl and prowl around! Christian, up and smai-it them.... But these were but gleams. For the rest, Religion, Nationality, Passion, Money, Politics; much more so those cardinal issues, Birth and Death, the True Gentleman skirted about, and became facially rigid towards and ceased to speak and panted and blew. "One doesn't talk of that sort of thing," Coote would say with a gesture of the knuckly hand. "O' course," Kipps would reply, with an equal significance. Profundities. Deep as it were, blowing to deep. One does not talk, but on the other hand one is punctilious to do. Actions speak. Kipps--in spite of the fact that the Walshinghams were more than a little lax--Kipps, who had formerly flitted Sunday after Sunday from one Folkestone church to another, had now a sitting of his own, paid for duly at Saint Stylites. There he was to be seen, always at the surplice evening service, and sometimes of a morning, dressed with a sober precision, and with an eye on Coote in the chancel. No difficulties now about finding the place in his book. He became a communicant again--he had lapsed soon after his confirmation when the young lady in the costume-room, who was his adopted sister, left the Emporium--and he would sometimes go around to the Vestry for Coote after the service. One evening he was introduced to the Hon. and Rev. Densemore. He was much too confused to say anything, and the noble cleric had nothing to say, but indisputably they were introduced.... No! you must not imagine our national ideal of a gentleman is without its "serious side," without even its stern and uncompromising side. The imagination no doubt refuses to see Coote displaying extraordinary refinements of courage upon the stricken field, but in the walks of peace there is sometimes sore need of sternness. Charitable as one may be, one must admit there are people who _do_ things, impossible things; people who place themselves "out of it" in countless ways; people, moreover, who are by a sort of predestination out of it from the beginning, and against these Society has invented a terrible protection for its Cootery, the Cut. The cut is no joke for anyone. It is excommunication. You may be cut by an individual, you may be cut by a set or you may be--and this is so tragic that beautiful romances have been written about it--"Cut by the County." One figures Coote discharging this last duty and cutting somebody--Coote, erect and pale, never speaking, going past with eyes of pitiless slate, lower jaw protruding a little, face pursed up and cold and stiff.... It never dawned upon Kipps that he would one day have to face this terrible front, to be to Coote not only as one dead, but as one gone more than a stage or so in decay, cut and passed, banned and outcast for ever. Yet so it was to be! One cannot hide any longer that all this fine progress of Kipps is doomed to end in collapse. So far indeed you have seen him ascend. You have seen him becoming more refined and careful day by day, more carefully dressed, less clumsy in the ways and methods of social life. You have seen the gulf widening between himself and his former low associates. I have brought you at last to the vision of him, faultlessly dressed and posed, in an atmosphere of candlelight and chanting, in his own sitting in one of the most fashionable churches in Folkestone.... All the time I have refrained from the lightest touch upon the tragic note that must now creep into my tale. Yet the net of his low connections has been about his feet, and moreover there was something interwoven in his being.... CHAPTER VI DISCORDS 1 One day Kipps set out upon his newly-mastered bicycle to New Romney to break the news of his engagement to his Uncle and Aunt--this time positively. He was now a finished cyclist, but as yet an unseasoned one; the southwest wind, even in its summer guise, as one meets it in the Marsh, is the equivalent of a reasonable hill, and ever and again he got off and refreshed himself by a spell of walking. He was walking just outside New Romney preparatory to his triumphal entry (one hand off) when abruptly he came upon Ann Pornick. It chanced he was thinking about her at the time. He had been thinking curious things; whether, after all, the atmosphere of New Romney and the Marsh had not some difference, some faint impalpable quality that was missing in the great and fashionable world of Folkestone behind there on the hill. Here there was a homeliness, a familiarity. He had noted as he passed that old Mr. Cliffordown's gate had been mended with a fresh piece of

silence

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

was completely wet), disclosed to the toiling Decoud the eagerness of his face, bent low over the box of the compass, and the attentive stare of his eyes. He knew now where he was, and he hoped to run the sinking lighter ashore in the shallow cove where the high, cliff-like end of the Great Isabel is divided in two equal parts by a deep and overgrown ravine. Decoud pumped without intermission. Nostromo steered without relaxing for a second the intense, peering effort of his stare. Each of them was as if utterly alone with his task. It did not occur to them to speak. There was nothing in common between them but the knowledge that the damaged lighter must be slowly but surely sinking. In that knowledge, which was like the crucial test of their desires, they seemed to have become completely estranged, as if they had discovered in the very shock of the collision that the loss of the lighter would not mean the same thing to them both. This common danger brought their differences in aim, in view, in character, and in position, into absolute prominence in the private vision of each. There was no bond of conviction, of common idea; they were merely two adventurers pursuing each his own adventure, involved in the same imminence of deadly peril. Therefore they had nothing to say to each other. But this peril, this only incontrovertible truth in which they shared, seemed to act as an inspiration to their mental and bodily powers. There was certainly something almost miraculous in the way the Capataz made the cove with nothing but the shadowy hint of the island's shape and the vague gleam of a small sandy strip for a guide. Where the ravine opens between the cliffs, and a slender, shallow rivulet meanders out of the bushes to lose itself in the sea, the lighter was run ashore; and the two men, with a taciturn, undaunted energy, began to discharge her precious freight, carrying each ox-hide box up the bed of the rivulet beyond the bushes to a hollow place which the caving in of the soil had made below the roots of a large tree. Its big smooth trunk leaned like a falling column far over the trickle of water running amongst the loose stones. A couple of years before Nostromo had spent a whole Sunday, all alone, exploring the island. He explained this to Decoud after their task was done, and they sat, weary in every limb, with their legs hanging down the low bank, and their backs against the tree, like a pair of blind men aware of each other and their surroundings by some indefinable sixth sense. "Yes," Nostromo repeated, "I never forget a place I have carefully looked at once." He spoke slowly, almost lazily, as if there had been a whole leisurely life before him, instead of the scanty two hours before daylight. The existence of the treasure, barely concealed in this improbable spot, laid a burden of secrecy upon every contemplated step, upon every intention and plan of future conduct. He felt the partial failure of this desperate affair entrusted to the great reputation he had known how to make for himself. However, it was also a partial success. His vanity was half appeased. His nervous irritation had subsided. "You never know what may be of use," he pursued with his usual quietness of tone and manner. "I spent a whole miserable Sunday in exploring this crumb of land." "A misanthropic sort of occupation," muttered Decoud, viciously. "You had no money, I suppose, to gamble with, and to fling about amongst the girls in your usual haunts, Capataz." "_E vero!_" exclaimed the Capataz, surprised into the use of his native tongue by so much perspicacity. "I had not! Therefore I did not want to go amongst those beggarly people accustomed to my generosity. It is looked for from the Capataz of the Cargadores, who are the rich men, and, as it were, the Caballeros amongst the common people. I don't care for cards but as a pastime; and as to those girls that boast of having opened their doors to my knock, you know I wouldn't look at any one of them twice except for what the people would say. They are queer, the good people of Sulaco, and I have got much useful information simply by listening patiently to the talk of the women that everybody believed I was in love with. Poor Teresa could never understand that. On that particular Sunday, senor, she scolded so that I went out of the house swearing that I would never darken their door again unless to fetch away my hammock and my chest of clothes. Senor, there is nothing more exasperating than to hear a woman you respect rail against your good reputation when you have not a single brass coin in your pocket. I untied one of the small boats and pulled myself out of the harbour with nothing but three cigars in my pocket to help me spend the day on this island. But the water of this rivulet you hear under your feet is cool and sweet and good, senor, both before and after a smoke." He was silent for a while, then added reflectively, "That was the first Sunday after I brought down the white-whiskered English rico all the way down the mountains from the Paramo on the top of the Entrada Pass--and in the coach, too! No coach had gone up or down that mountain road within the memory of man, senor, till I brought this one down in charge of fifty peons working like one man with ropes, pickaxes, and poles under my direction. That was the rich Englishman who, as people say, pays for the making of this railway. He was very pleased with me. But my wages were not due till the end of the month." He slid down the bank suddenly. Decoud heard the splash of his feet in the brook and followed his footsteps down the ravine. His form was lost among the bushes till he had reached the strip of sand under the cliff. As often happens in the gulf when the showers during the first part of the night had been frequent and heavy, the darkness had thinned considerably towards the morning though there were no signs of daylight as yet. The cargo-lighter, relieved of its precious burden, rocked feebly, half-afloat, with her fore-foot on the sand. A long rope stretched away like a black cotton thread across the strip of white beach to the grapnel Nostromo had carried ashore and hooked to the stem of a tree-like shrub in the very opening of the ravine. There was nothing for Decoud but to remain on the island. He received from Nostromo's hands whatever food the foresight of Captain Mitchell had put on board the lighter and deposited it temporarily in the little dinghy which on their arrival they had hauled up out of sight amongst the bushes. It was to be left with him. The island was to be a hiding-place, not a prison; he could pull out to a passing ship. The O.S.N. Company's mail boats passed close to the islands when going into Sulaco from the north. But the Minerva, carrying off the ex-president, had taken the news up north of the disturbances in Sulaco. It was possible that the next steamer down would get instructions to miss the port altogether since the town, as far as the Minerva's officers knew, was for the time being in the hands of the rabble. This would mean that there would be no steamer for a month, as far as the mail service went; but Decoud had to take his chance of that. The island was his only shelter from the proscription hanging over his head. The Capataz was, of course, going back. The unloaded lighter leaked much less, and he thought that she would keep afloat as far as the harbour. He passed to Decoud, standing knee-deep alongside, one of the two spades which belonged to the equipment of each lighter for use when ballasting ships. By working with it carefully as soon as there was daylight enough to see, Decoud could loosen a mass of earth and stones overhanging the cavity in which they had deposited the treasure, so that it would look as if it had fallen naturally. It would cover up not only the cavity, but even all traces of their work, the footsteps, the displaced stones, and even the broken bushes. "Besides, who would think of looking either for you or the treasure here?" Nostromo continued, as if he could not tear himself away from the spot. "Nobody is ever likely to come here. What could any man want with this piece of earth as long as there is room for his feet on the mainland! The people in this country are not curious. There are even no fishermen here to intrude upon your worship. All the fishing that is done in the gulf goes on near Zapiga, over there. Senor, if you are forced to leave this island before anything can be arranged for you, do not try to make for Zapiga. It is a settlement of thieves and matreros, where they would cut your throat promptly for the sake of your gold watch and chain. And, senor, think twice before confiding in any one whatever; even in the officers of the Company's steamers, if you ever get on board one. Honesty alone is not enough for security. You must look to discretion and prudence in a man. And always remember, senor, before you open your lips for a confidence, that this treasure may be left safely here for hundreds of years. Time is on its side, senor. And silver is an incorruptible metal that can be trusted to keep its value for ever. . . . An incorruptible metal," he repeated, as if the idea had given him a profound pleasure. "As some men are said to be," Decoud pronounced, inscrutably, while the Capataz, who busied himself in baling out the lighter with a wooden bucket, went on throwing the water over the side with a regular splash. Decoud, incorrigible in his scepticism, reflected, not cynically, but with general satisfaction, that this man was made incorruptible by his enormous vanity, that finest form of egoism which can take on the aspect of every virtue. Nostromo ceased baling, and, as if struck with a sudden thought, dropped the bucket with a clatter into the lighter. "Have you any message?" he asked in a lowered voice. "Remember, I shall be asked questions." "You must find the hopeful words that ought to be spoken to the people in town. I trust for that your intelligence and your experience, Capataz. You understand?" "Si, senor. . . . For the ladies." "Yes, yes," said Decoud, hastily. "Your wonderful reputation will make them attach great value to your words; therefore be careful what you say. I am looking forward," he continued, feeling the fatal touch of contempt for himself to which his complex nature was subject, "I am looking forward to a glorious and successful ending to my mission. Do you hear, Capataz? Use the words glorious and successful when you speak to the senorita. Your own mission is accomplished gloriously and successfully. You have indubitably saved the silver of the mine. Not only this silver, but probably all the silver that shall ever come out of it." Nostromo detected the ironic tone. "I dare say, Senor Don Martin," he said, moodily. "There are very few things that I am not equal to. Ask the foreign signori. I, a man of the people, who cannot always understand what you mean. But as to this lot which I must leave here, let me tell you that I would believe it in greater safety if you had not been with me at all." An exclamation escaped Decoud, and a short pause followed. "Shall I go back with you to Sulaco?" he asked in an angry tone. "Shall I strike you dead with my knife where you stand?" retorted Nostromo, contemptuously. "It would be the same thing as taking you to Sulaco. Come, senor. Your reputation is in your politics, and mine is bound up with the fate of this silver. Do you wonder I wish there had been no other man to share my knowledge? I wanted no one with me, senor." "You could not have kept the lighter afloat without me," Decoud almost shouted. "You would have gone to the bottom with her." "Yes," uttered Nostromo, slowly; "alone." Here was a man, Decoud reflected, that seemed as though he would have preferred to die rather than deface the perfect form of his egoism. Such a man was safe. In silence he helped the Capataz to get the grapnel on board. Nostromo cleared the shelving shore with one push of the heavy oar, and Decoud found himself solitary on the beach like a man in a dream. A sudden desire to hear a human voice once more seized upon his heart. The lighter was hardly distinguishable from the black water upon which she floated. "What do you think has become of Hirsch?" he shouted. "Knocked overboard and drowned," cried Nostromo's voice confidently out of the black wastes of sky and sea around the islet. "Keep close in the ravine, senor. I shall try to come out to you in a night or two." A slight swishing rustle showed that Nostromo was setting the sail. It filled all at once with a sound as of a single loud drum-tap. Decoud went back to the ravine. Nostromo, at the tiller, looked back from time to time at the vanishing mass of the Great Isabel, which, little by little, merged into the uniform texture of the night. At last, when he turned his head again, he saw nothing but a smooth darkness, like a solid wall. Then he, too, experienced that feeling of solitude which had weighed heavily on Decoud after the lighter had slipped off the shore. But while the man on the island was oppressed by a bizarre sense of unreality affecting the very ground upon which he walked, the mind of the Capataz of the Cargadores turned alertly to the problem of future conduct. Nostromo's faculties, working on parallel lines, enabled him to steer straight, to keep a look-out for Hermosa, near which he had to pass, and to try to imagine what would happen tomorrow in Sulaco. To-morrow, or, as a matter of fact, to-day, since the dawn was not very far, Sotillo would find out in what way the treasure had gone. A gang of Cargadores had been employed in loading it into a railway truck from the Custom House store-rooms, and running the truck on to the wharf. There would be arrests made, and certainly before noon Sotillo would know in what manner the silver had left Sulaco, and who it was that took it out. Nostromo's intention had been to sail right into the harbour; but at this thought by a sudden touch of the tiller he threw the lighter into the wind and checked her rapid way. His re-appearance with the very boat would raise suspicions, would cause surmises, would absolutely put Sotillo on the track. He himself would be arrested; and once in the Calabozo there was no saying what they would do to him to make him speak. He trusted himself, but he stood up to look round. Near by, Hermosa showed low its white surface as flat as a table, with the slight run of the sea raised by the breeze washing over its edges noisily. The lighter must be sunk at once. He allowed her to drift with her sail aback. There was already a good deal of water in her. He allowed her to drift towards the harbour entrance, and, letting the tiller swing about, squatted down and busied himself in loosening the plug. With that out she would fill very quickly, and every lighter carried a little iron ballast--enough to make her go down when full of water. When he stood up again the noisy wash about the Hermosa sounded far away, almost inaudible; and already he could make out the shape of land about the harbour entrance. This was a desperate affair, and he was a good swimmer. A mile was nothing to him, and he knew of an easy place for landing just below the earthworks of the old abandoned fort. It occurred to him with a peculiar fascination that this fort was a good place in which to sleep the day through after so many sleepless nights. With one blow of the tiller he unshipped for the purpose, he knocked the plug out, but did not take the trouble to lower the sail. He felt the water welling up heavily about his legs before he leaped on to the taffrail. There, upright and motionless, in his shirt and trousers only, he stood waiting. When he had felt her settle he sprang far away with a mighty splash. At once he turned his head. The gloomy, clouded dawn from behind the mountains showed him on the smooth waters the upper corner of the sail, a dark wet triangle of canvas waving slightly to and fro. He saw it vanish, as if jerked under, and then struck out for the shore. PART THIRD THE LIGHTHOUSE CHAPTER ONE Directly the cargo boat had slipped away from the wharf and got lost in the darkness of the harbour the Europeans of Sulaco separated, to prepare for the coming of the Monterist regime, which was approaching Sulaco from the mountains, as well as from the sea. This bit of manual work in loading the silver was their last concerted action. It ended the three days of danger, during which, according to the newspaper press of Europe, their energy had preserved the town from the calamities of popular disorder. At the shore end of the jetty, Captain Mitchell said good-night and turned back. His intention was to walk the planks of the wharf till the steamer from Esmeralda turned up. The engineers of the railway staff, collecting their Basque and Italian workmen, marched them away to the railway yards, leaving the Custom House, so well defended on the first day of the riot, standing open to the four winds of heaven. Their men had conducted themselves bravely and faithfully during the famous "three days" of Sulaco. In a great part this faithfulness and that courage had been exercised in self-defence rather than in the cause of those material interests to which Charles Gould had pinned his faith. Amongst the cries of the mob not the least loud had been the cry of death to foreigners. It was, indeed, a lucky circumstance for Sulaco that the relations of those imported workmen with the people of the country had been uniformly bad from the first. Doctor Monygham, going to the door of Viola's kitchen, observed this retreat marking the end of the foreign interference, this withdrawal of the army of material progress from the field of Costaguana revolutions. Algarrobe torches carried on the outskirts of the moving body sent their penetrating aroma into his nostrils. Their light, sweeping along the front of the house, made the letters of the inscription, "Albergo d'ltalia Una," leap out black from end to end of the long wall. His eyes blinked in the clear blaze. Several young men, mostly fair and tall, shepherding this mob of dark bronzed heads, surmounted by the glint of slanting rifle barrels, nodded to him familiarly as they went by. The doctor was a well-known character. Some of them wondered what he was doing there. Then, on the flank of their workmen they tramped on, following the line of rails. "Withdrawing your people from the harbour?" said the doctor, addressing himself to the chief engineer of the railway, who had accompanied Charles Gould so far on his way to the town, walking by the side of the horse, with his hand on the saddle-bow. They had stopped just outside the open door to let the workmen cross the road. "As quick as I can. We are not a political faction," answered the engineer, meaningly. "And we are not going to give our new rulers a handle against the railway. You approve me, Gould?" "Absolutely," said Charles Gould's impassive voice, high up and outside the dim parallelogram of light falling on the road through the open door. With Sotillo expected from one side, and Pedro Montero from the other, the engineer-in-chief's only anxiety now was to avoid a collision with either. Sulaco, for him, was a railway station, a terminus, workshops, a great accumulation of stores. As against the mob the railway defended its property, but politically the railway was neutral. He was a brave man; and in that spirit of neutrality he had carried proposals of truce to the self-appointed chiefs of the popular party, the deputies Fuentes and Gamacho. Bullets were still flying about when he had crossed the Plaza on that mission, waving above his head a white napkin belonging to the table linen of the Amarilla Club. He was rather proud of this exploit; and reflecting that the doctor, busy all day with the wounded in the patio of the Casa Gould, had not had time to hear the news, he began a succinct narrative. He had communicated to them the intelligence from the Construction Camp as to Pedro Montero. The brother of the victorious general, he had assured them, could be expected at Sulaco at any time now. This news (as he anticipated), when shouted out of the window by Senor Gamacho, induced a rush of the mob along the Campo Road towards Rincon. The two deputies also, after shaking hands with him effusively, mounted and galloped off to meet the great man. "I have misled them a little as to the time," the chief engineer confessed. "However hard he rides, he can scarcely get here before the morning. But my object is attained. I've secured several hours' peace for the losing party. But I did not tell them anything about Sotillo, for fear they would take it into their heads to try to get hold of the harbour again, either to oppose him or welcome him--there's no saying which. There was Gould's silver, on which rests the remnant of our hopes. Decoud's retreat had to be thought of, too. I think the railway has done pretty well by its friends without compromising itself hopelessly. Now the parties must be left to themselves." "Costaguana for the Costaguaneros," interjected the doctor, sardonically. "It is a fine country, and they have raised a fine crop of hates, vengeance, murder, and rapine--those sons of the country." "Well, I am one of them," Charles Gould's voice sounded, calmly, "and I must be going on to see to my own crop of trouble. My wife has driven straight on, doctor?" "Yes. All was quiet on this side. Mrs. Gould has taken the two girls with her." Charles Gould rode on, and the engineer-in-chief followed the doctor indoors. "That man is calmness personified," he said, appreciatively, dropping on a bench, and stretching his well-shaped legs in cycling stockings nearly across the doorway. "He must be extremely sure of himself." "If that's all he is sure of, then he is sure of nothing," said the doctor. He had perched himself again on the end of the table. He nursed his cheek in the palm of one hand, while the other sustained the elbow. "It is the last thing a man ought to be sure of." The candle, half-consumed and burning dimly with a long wick, lighted up from below his inclined face, whose expression affected by the drawn-in cicatrices in the cheeks, had something vaguely unnatural, an exaggerated remorseful bitterness. As he sat there he had the air of meditating upon sinister things. The engineer-in-chief gazed at him for a time before he protested. "I really don't see that. For me there seems to be nothing else. However----" He was a wise man, but he could not quite conceal his contempt for that sort of paradox; in fact. Dr. Monygham was not liked by the Europeans of Sulaco. His outward aspect of an outcast, which he preserved even in Mrs. Gould's drawing-room, provoked unfavourable criticism. There could be no doubt of his intelligence; and as he had lived for over twenty years in the country, the pessimism of his outlook could not be altogether ignored. But instinctively, in self-defence of their activities and hopes, his hearers put it to the account of some hidden imperfection in the man's character. It was known that many years before, when quite young, he had been made by Guzman Bento chief medical officer of the army. Not one of the Europeans then in the service of Costaguana had been so much liked and trusted by the fierce old Dictator. Afterwards his story was not so clear. It lost itself amongst the innumerable tales of conspiracies and plots against the tyrant as a stream is lost in an arid belt of sandy country before it emerges, diminished and troubled, perhaps, on the other side. The doctor made no secret of it that he had lived for years in the wildest parts of the Republic, wandering with almost unknown Indian tribes in the great forests of the far interior where the great rivers have their sources. But it was mere aimless wandering; he had written nothing, collected nothing, brought nothing for science out of the twilight of the forests, which seemed to cling to his battered personality limping about Sulaco, where it had drifted in casually, only to get stranded on the shores of the sea. It was also known that he had lived in a state of destitution till the arrival of the Goulds from Europe. Don Carlos and Dona Emilia had taken up the mad English doctor, when it became apparent that for all his savage independence he could be tamed by kindness. Perhaps it was only hunger that had tamed him. In years gone by he had certainly been acquainted with Charles Gould's father in Sta. Marta; and now, no matter what were the dark passages of his history, as the medical officer of the San Tome mine he became a recognized personality. He was recognized, but not unreservedly accepted. So much defiant eccentricity and such an outspoken scorn for mankind seemed to point to mere recklessness of judgment, the bravado of guilt. Besides, since he had become again of some account, vague whispers had been heard that years ago, when fallen into disgrace and thrown into prison by Guzman Bento at the time of the so-called Great Conspiracy, he had betrayed some of his best friends amongst the conspirators. Nobody pretended to believe that whisper; the whole story of the Great Conspiracy was hopelessly involved and obscure; it is admitted in Costaguana that there never had been a conspiracy except in the diseased imagination of the Tyrant; and, therefore, nothing and no one to betray; though the most distinguished Costaguaneros had been imprisoned and executed upon that accusation. The procedure had dragged on for years, decimating the better class like a pestilence. The mere expression of sorrow for the fate of executed kinsmen had been punished with death. Don Jose Avellanos was perhaps the only one living who knew the whole story of those unspeakable cruelties. He had suffered from them himself, and he, with a shrug of the shoulders and a nervous, jerky gesture of the arm, was wont to put away from him, as it were, every allusion to it. But whatever the reason, Dr. Monygham, a personage in the administration of the Gould Concession, treated with reverent awe by the miners, and indulged in his peculiarities by Mrs. Gould, remained somehow outside the pale. It was not from any liking for the doctor that the engineer-in-chief had lingered in the inn upon the plain. He liked old Viola much better. He had come to look upon the Albergo d'ltalia Una as a dependence of the railway. Many of his subordinates had their quarters there. Mrs. Gould's interest in the family conferred upon it a sort of distinction. The engineer-in-chief, with an army of workers under his orders, appreciated the moral influence of the old Garibaldino upon his countrymen. His austere, old-world Republicanism had a severe, soldier-like standard of faithfulness and duty, as if the world were a battlefield where men had to fight for the sake of universal love and brotherhood, instead of a more or less large share of booty. "Poor old chap!" he said, after he had heard the doctor's account of Teresa. "He'll never be able to keep the place going by himself. I shall be sorry." "He's quite alone up there," grunted Doctor Monygham, with a toss of his heavy head towards the narrow staircase. "Every living soul has cleared out, and Mrs. Gould took the girls away just now. It might not be over-safe for them out here before very long. Of course, as a doctor I can do nothing more here; but she has asked me to stay with old Viola, and as I have no horse to get back to the mine, where I ought to be, I made no difficulty to stay. They can do without me in the town." "I have a good mind to remain with you, doctor, till we see whether anything happens to-night at the harbour," declared the engineer-in-chief. "He must not be molested by Sotillo's soldiery, who may push on as far as this at once. Sotillo used to be very cordial to me at the Goulds' and at the club. How that man'll ever dare to look any of his friends here in the face

patio

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

was completely wet), disclosed to the toiling Decoud the eagerness of his face, bent low over the box of the compass, and the attentive stare of his eyes. He knew now where he was, and he hoped to run the sinking lighter ashore in the shallow cove where the high, cliff-like end of the Great Isabel is divided in two equal parts by a deep and overgrown ravine. Decoud pumped without intermission. Nostromo steered without relaxing for a second the intense, peering effort of his stare. Each of them was as if utterly alone with his task. It did not occur to them to speak. There was nothing in common between them but the knowledge that the damaged lighter must be slowly but surely sinking. In that knowledge, which was like the crucial test of their desires, they seemed to have become completely estranged, as if they had discovered in the very shock of the collision that the loss of the lighter would not mean the same thing to them both. This common danger brought their differences in aim, in view, in character, and in position, into absolute prominence in the private vision of each. There was no bond of conviction, of common idea; they were merely two adventurers pursuing each his own adventure, involved in the same imminence of deadly peril. Therefore they had nothing to say to each other. But this peril, this only incontrovertible truth in which they shared, seemed to act as an inspiration to their mental and bodily powers. There was certainly something almost miraculous in the way the Capataz made the cove with nothing but the shadowy hint of the island's shape and the vague gleam of a small sandy strip for a guide. Where the ravine opens between the cliffs, and a slender, shallow rivulet meanders out of the bushes to lose itself in the sea, the lighter was run ashore; and the two men, with a taciturn, undaunted energy, began to discharge her precious freight, carrying each ox-hide box up the bed of the rivulet beyond the bushes to a hollow place which the caving in of the soil had made below the roots of a large tree. Its big smooth trunk leaned like a falling column far over the trickle of water running amongst the loose stones. A couple of years before Nostromo had spent a whole Sunday, all alone, exploring the island. He explained this to Decoud after their task was done, and they sat, weary in every limb, with their legs hanging down the low bank, and their backs against the tree, like a pair of blind men aware of each other and their surroundings by some indefinable sixth sense. "Yes," Nostromo repeated, "I never forget a place I have carefully looked at once." He spoke slowly, almost lazily, as if there had been a whole leisurely life before him, instead of the scanty two hours before daylight. The existence of the treasure, barely concealed in this improbable spot, laid a burden of secrecy upon every contemplated step, upon every intention and plan of future conduct. He felt the partial failure of this desperate affair entrusted to the great reputation he had known how to make for himself. However, it was also a partial success. His vanity was half appeased. His nervous irritation had subsided. "You never know what may be of use," he pursued with his usual quietness of tone and manner. "I spent a whole miserable Sunday in exploring this crumb of land." "A misanthropic sort of occupation," muttered Decoud, viciously. "You had no money, I suppose, to gamble with, and to fling about amongst the girls in your usual haunts, Capataz." "_E vero!_" exclaimed the Capataz, surprised into the use of his native tongue by so much perspicacity. "I had not! Therefore I did not want to go amongst those beggarly people accustomed to my generosity. It is looked for from the Capataz of the Cargadores, who are the rich men, and, as it were, the Caballeros amongst the common people. I don't care for cards but as a pastime; and as to those girls that boast of having opened their doors to my knock, you know I wouldn't look at any one of them twice except for what the people would say. They are queer, the good people of Sulaco, and I have got much useful information simply by listening patiently to the talk of the women that everybody believed I was in love with. Poor Teresa could never understand that. On that particular Sunday, senor, she scolded so that I went out of the house swearing that I would never darken their door again unless to fetch away my hammock and my chest of clothes. Senor, there is nothing more exasperating than to hear a woman you respect rail against your good reputation when you have not a single brass coin in your pocket. I untied one of the small boats and pulled myself out of the harbour with nothing but three cigars in my pocket to help me spend the day on this island. But the water of this rivulet you hear under your feet is cool and sweet and good, senor, both before and after a smoke." He was silent for a while, then added reflectively, "That was the first Sunday after I brought down the white-whiskered English rico all the way down the mountains from the Paramo on the top of the Entrada Pass--and in the coach, too! No coach had gone up or down that mountain road within the memory of man, senor, till I brought this one down in charge of fifty peons working like one man with ropes, pickaxes, and poles under my direction. That was the rich Englishman who, as people say, pays for the making of this railway. He was very pleased with me. But my wages were not due till the end of the month." He slid down the bank suddenly. Decoud heard the splash of his feet in the brook and followed his footsteps down the ravine. His form was lost among the bushes till he had reached the strip of sand under the cliff. As often happens in the gulf when the showers during the first part of the night had been frequent and heavy, the darkness had thinned considerably towards the morning though there were no signs of daylight as yet. The cargo-lighter, relieved of its precious burden, rocked feebly, half-afloat, with her fore-foot on the sand. A long rope stretched away like a black cotton thread across the strip of white beach to the grapnel Nostromo had carried ashore and hooked to the stem of a tree-like shrub in the very opening of the ravine. There was nothing for Decoud but to remain on the island. He received from Nostromo's hands whatever food the foresight of Captain Mitchell had put on board the lighter and deposited it temporarily in the little dinghy which on their arrival they had hauled up out of sight amongst the bushes. It was to be left with him. The island was to be a hiding-place, not a prison; he could pull out to a passing ship. The O.S.N. Company's mail boats passed close to the islands when going into Sulaco from the north. But the Minerva, carrying off the ex-president, had taken the news up north of the disturbances in Sulaco. It was possible that the next steamer down would get instructions to miss the port altogether since the town, as far as the Minerva's officers knew, was for the time being in the hands of the rabble. This would mean that there would be no steamer for a month, as far as the mail service went; but Decoud had to take his chance of that. The island was his only shelter from the proscription hanging over his head. The Capataz was, of course, going back. The unloaded lighter leaked much less, and he thought that she would keep afloat as far as the harbour. He passed to Decoud, standing knee-deep alongside, one of the two spades which belonged to the equipment of each lighter for use when ballasting ships. By working with it carefully as soon as there was daylight enough to see, Decoud could loosen a mass of earth and stones overhanging the cavity in which they had deposited the treasure, so that it would look as if it had fallen naturally. It would cover up not only the cavity, but even all traces of their work, the footsteps, the displaced stones, and even the broken bushes. "Besides, who would think of looking either for you or the treasure here?" Nostromo continued, as if he could not tear himself away from the spot. "Nobody is ever likely to come here. What could any man want with this piece of earth as long as there is room for his feet on the mainland! The people in this country are not curious. There are even no fishermen here to intrude upon your worship. All the fishing that is done in the gulf goes on near Zapiga, over there. Senor, if you are forced to leave this island before anything can be arranged for you, do not try to make for Zapiga. It is a settlement of thieves and matreros, where they would cut your throat promptly for the sake of your gold watch and chain. And, senor, think twice before confiding in any one whatever; even in the officers of the Company's steamers, if you ever get on board one. Honesty alone is not enough for security. You must look to discretion and prudence in a man. And always remember, senor, before you open your lips for a confidence, that this treasure may be left safely here for hundreds of years. Time is on its side, senor. And silver is an incorruptible metal that can be trusted to keep its value for ever. . . . An incorruptible metal," he repeated, as if the idea had given him a profound pleasure. "As some men are said to be," Decoud pronounced, inscrutably, while the Capataz, who busied himself in baling out the lighter with a wooden bucket, went on throwing the water over the side with a regular splash. Decoud, incorrigible in his scepticism, reflected, not cynically, but with general satisfaction, that this man was made incorruptible by his enormous vanity, that finest form of egoism which can take on the aspect of every virtue. Nostromo ceased baling, and, as if struck with a sudden thought, dropped the bucket with a clatter into the lighter. "Have you any message?" he asked in a lowered voice. "Remember, I shall be asked questions." "You must find the hopeful words that ought to be spoken to the people in town. I trust for that your intelligence and your experience, Capataz. You understand?" "Si, senor. . . . For the ladies." "Yes, yes," said Decoud, hastily. "Your wonderful reputation will make them attach great value to your words; therefore be careful what you say. I am looking forward," he continued, feeling the fatal touch of contempt for himself to which his complex nature was subject, "I am looking forward to a glorious and successful ending to my mission. Do you hear, Capataz? Use the words glorious and successful when you speak to the senorita. Your own mission is accomplished gloriously and successfully. You have indubitably saved the silver of the mine. Not only this silver, but probably all the silver that shall ever come out of it." Nostromo detected the ironic tone. "I dare say, Senor Don Martin," he said, moodily. "There are very few things that I am not equal to. Ask the foreign signori. I, a man of the people, who cannot always understand what you mean. But as to this lot which I must leave here, let me tell you that I would believe it in greater safety if you had not been with me at all." An exclamation escaped Decoud, and a short pause followed. "Shall I go back with you to Sulaco?" he asked in an angry tone. "Shall I strike you dead with my knife where you stand?" retorted Nostromo, contemptuously. "It would be the same thing as taking you to Sulaco. Come, senor. Your reputation is in your politics, and mine is bound up with the fate of this silver. Do you wonder I wish there had been no other man to share my knowledge? I wanted no one with me, senor." "You could not have kept the lighter afloat without me," Decoud almost shouted. "You would have gone to the bottom with her." "Yes," uttered Nostromo, slowly; "alone." Here was a man, Decoud reflected, that seemed as though he would have preferred to die rather than deface the perfect form of his egoism. Such a man was safe. In silence he helped the Capataz to get the grapnel on board. Nostromo cleared the shelving shore with one push of the heavy oar, and Decoud found himself solitary on the beach like a man in a dream. A sudden desire to hear a human voice once more seized upon his heart. The lighter was hardly distinguishable from the black water upon which she floated. "What do you think has become of Hirsch?" he shouted. "Knocked overboard and drowned," cried Nostromo's voice confidently out of the black wastes of sky and sea around the islet. "Keep close in the ravine, senor. I shall try to come out to you in a night or two." A slight swishing rustle showed that Nostromo was setting the sail. It filled all at once with a sound as of a single loud drum-tap. Decoud went back to the ravine. Nostromo, at the tiller, looked back from time to time at the vanishing mass of the Great Isabel, which, little by little, merged into the uniform texture of the night. At last, when he turned his head again, he saw nothing but a smooth darkness, like a solid wall. Then he, too, experienced that feeling of solitude which had weighed heavily on Decoud after the lighter had slipped off the shore. But while the man on the island was oppressed by a bizarre sense of unreality affecting the very ground upon which he walked, the mind of the Capataz of the Cargadores turned alertly to the problem of future conduct. Nostromo's faculties, working on parallel lines, enabled him to steer straight, to keep a look-out for Hermosa, near which he had to pass, and to try to imagine what would happen tomorrow in Sulaco. To-morrow, or, as a matter of fact, to-day, since the dawn was not very far, Sotillo would find out in what way the treasure had gone. A gang of Cargadores had been employed in loading it into a railway truck from the Custom House store-rooms, and running the truck on to the wharf. There would be arrests made, and certainly before noon Sotillo would know in what manner the silver had left Sulaco, and who it was that took it out. Nostromo's intention had been to sail right into the harbour; but at this thought by a sudden touch of the tiller he threw the lighter into the wind and checked her rapid way. His re-appearance with the very boat would raise suspicions, would cause surmises, would absolutely put Sotillo on the track. He himself would be arrested; and once in the Calabozo there was no saying what they would do to him to make him speak. He trusted himself, but he stood up to look round. Near by, Hermosa showed low its white surface as flat as a table, with the slight run of the sea raised by the breeze washing over its edges noisily. The lighter must be sunk at once. He allowed her to drift with her sail aback. There was already a good deal of water in her. He allowed her to drift towards the harbour entrance, and, letting the tiller swing about, squatted down and busied himself in loosening the plug. With that out she would fill very quickly, and every lighter carried a little iron ballast--enough to make her go down when full of water. When he stood up again the noisy wash about the Hermosa sounded far away, almost inaudible; and already he could make out the shape of land about the harbour entrance. This was a desperate affair, and he was a good swimmer. A mile was nothing to him, and he knew of an easy place for landing just below the earthworks of the old abandoned fort. It occurred to him with a peculiar fascination that this fort was a good place in which to sleep the day through after so many sleepless nights. With one blow of the tiller he unshipped for the purpose, he knocked the plug out, but did not take the trouble to lower the sail. He felt the water welling up heavily about his legs before he leaped on to the taffrail. There, upright and motionless, in his shirt and trousers only, he stood waiting. When he had felt her settle he sprang far away with a mighty splash. At once he turned his head. The gloomy, clouded dawn from behind the mountains showed him on the smooth waters the upper corner of the sail, a dark wet triangle of canvas waving slightly to and fro. He saw it vanish, as if jerked under, and then struck out for the shore. PART THIRD THE LIGHTHOUSE CHAPTER ONE Directly the cargo boat had slipped away from the wharf and got lost in the darkness of the harbour the Europeans of Sulaco separated, to prepare for the coming of the Monterist regime, which was approaching Sulaco from the mountains, as well as from the sea. This bit of manual work in loading the silver was their last concerted action. It ended the three days of danger, during which, according to the newspaper press of Europe, their energy had preserved the town from the calamities of popular disorder. At the shore end of the jetty, Captain Mitchell said good-night and turned back. His intention was to walk the planks of the wharf till the steamer from Esmeralda turned up. The engineers of the railway staff, collecting their Basque and Italian workmen, marched them away to the railway yards, leaving the Custom House, so well defended on the first day of the riot, standing open to the four winds of heaven. Their men had conducted themselves bravely and faithfully during the famous "three days" of Sulaco. In a great part this faithfulness and that courage had been exercised in self-defence rather than in the cause of those material interests to which Charles Gould had pinned his faith. Amongst the cries of the mob not the least loud had been the cry of death to foreigners. It was, indeed, a lucky circumstance for Sulaco that the relations of those imported workmen with the people of the country had been uniformly bad from the first. Doctor Monygham, going to the door of Viola's kitchen, observed this retreat marking the end of the foreign interference, this withdrawal of the army of material progress from the field of Costaguana revolutions. Algarrobe torches carried on the outskirts of the moving body sent their penetrating aroma into his nostrils. Their light, sweeping along the front of the house, made the letters of the inscription, "Albergo d'ltalia Una," leap out black from end to end of the long wall. His eyes blinked in the clear blaze. Several young men, mostly fair and tall, shepherding this mob of dark bronzed heads, surmounted by the glint of slanting rifle barrels, nodded to him familiarly as they went by. The doctor was a well-known character. Some of them wondered what he was doing there. Then, on the flank of their workmen they tramped on, following the line of rails. "Withdrawing your people from the harbour?" said the doctor, addressing himself to the chief engineer of the railway, who had accompanied Charles Gould so far on his way to the town, walking by the side of the horse, with his hand on the saddle-bow. They had stopped just outside the open door to let the workmen cross the road. "As quick as I can. We are not a political faction," answered the engineer, meaningly. "And we are not going to give our new rulers a handle against the railway. You approve me, Gould?" "Absolutely," said Charles Gould's impassive voice, high up and outside the dim parallelogram of light falling on the road through the open door. With Sotillo expected from one side, and Pedro Montero from the other, the engineer-in-chief's only anxiety now was to avoid a collision with either. Sulaco, for him, was a railway station, a terminus, workshops, a great accumulation of stores. As against the mob the railway defended its property, but politically the railway was neutral. He was a brave man; and in that spirit of neutrality he had carried proposals of truce to the self-appointed chiefs of the popular party, the deputies Fuentes and Gamacho. Bullets were still flying about when he had crossed the Plaza on that mission, waving above his head a white napkin belonging to the table linen of the Amarilla Club. He was rather proud of this exploit; and reflecting that the doctor, busy all day with the wounded in the patio of the Casa Gould, had not had time to hear the news, he began a succinct narrative. He had communicated to them the intelligence from the Construction Camp as to Pedro Montero. The brother of the victorious general, he had assured them, could be expected at Sulaco at any time now. This news (as he anticipated), when shouted out of the window by Senor Gamacho, induced a rush of the mob along the Campo Road towards Rincon. The two deputies also, after shaking hands with him effusively, mounted and galloped off to meet the great man. "I have misled them a little as to the time," the chief engineer confessed. "However hard he rides, he can scarcely get here before the morning. But my object is attained. I've secured several hours' peace for the losing party. But I did not tell them anything about Sotillo, for fear they would take it into their heads to try to get hold of the harbour again, either to oppose him or welcome him--there's no saying which. There was Gould's silver, on which rests the remnant of our hopes. Decoud's retreat had to be thought of, too. I think the railway has done pretty well by its friends without compromising itself hopelessly. Now the parties must be left to themselves." "Costaguana for the Costaguaneros," interjected the doctor, sardonically. "It is a fine country, and they have raised a fine crop of hates, vengeance, murder, and rapine--those sons of the country." "Well, I am one of them," Charles Gould's voice sounded, calmly, "and I must be going on to see to my own crop of trouble. My wife has driven straight on, doctor?" "Yes. All was quiet on this side. Mrs. Gould has taken the two girls with her." Charles Gould rode on, and the engineer-in-chief followed the doctor indoors. "That man is calmness personified," he said, appreciatively, dropping on a bench, and stretching his well-shaped legs in cycling stockings nearly across the doorway. "He must be extremely sure of himself." "If that's all he is sure of, then he is sure of nothing," said the doctor. He had perched himself again on the end of the table. He nursed his cheek in the palm of one hand, while the other sustained the elbow. "It is the last thing a man ought to be sure of." The candle, half-consumed and burning dimly with a long wick, lighted up from below his inclined face, whose expression affected by the drawn-in cicatrices in the cheeks, had something vaguely unnatural, an exaggerated remorseful bitterness. As he sat there he had the air of meditating upon sinister things. The engineer-in-chief gazed at him for a time before he protested. "I really don't see that. For me there seems to be nothing else. However----" He was a wise man, but he could not quite conceal his contempt for that sort of paradox; in fact. Dr. Monygham was not liked by the Europeans of Sulaco. His outward aspect of an outcast, which he preserved even in Mrs. Gould's drawing-room, provoked unfavourable criticism. There could be no doubt of his intelligence; and as he had lived for over twenty years in the country, the pessimism of his outlook could not be altogether ignored. But instinctively, in self-defence of their activities and hopes, his hearers put it to the account of some hidden imperfection in the man's character. It was known that many years before, when quite young, he had been made by Guzman Bento chief medical officer of the army. Not one of the Europeans then in the service of Costaguana had been so much liked and trusted by the fierce old Dictator. Afterwards his story was not so clear. It lost itself amongst the innumerable tales of conspiracies and plots against the tyrant as a stream is lost in an arid belt of sandy country before it emerges, diminished and troubled, perhaps, on the other side. The doctor made no secret of it that he had lived for years in the wildest parts of the Republic, wandering with almost unknown Indian tribes in the great forests of the far interior where the great rivers have their sources. But it was mere aimless wandering; he had written nothing, collected nothing, brought nothing for science out of the twilight of the forests, which seemed to cling to his battered personality limping about Sulaco, where it had drifted in casually, only to get stranded on the shores of the sea. It was also known that he had lived in a state of destitution till the arrival of the Goulds from Europe. Don Carlos and Dona Emilia had taken up the mad English doctor, when it became apparent that for all his savage independence he could be tamed by kindness. Perhaps it was only hunger that had tamed him. In years gone by he had certainly been acquainted with Charles Gould's father in Sta. Marta; and now, no matter what were the dark passages of his history, as the medical officer of the San Tome mine he became a recognized personality. He was recognized, but not unreservedly accepted. So much defiant eccentricity and such an outspoken scorn for mankind seemed to point to mere recklessness of judgment, the bravado of guilt. Besides, since he had become again of some account, vague whispers had been heard that years ago, when fallen into disgrace and thrown into prison by Guzman Bento at the time of the so-called Great Conspiracy, he had betrayed some of his best friends amongst the conspirators. Nobody pretended to believe that whisper; the whole story of the Great Conspiracy was hopelessly involved and obscure; it is admitted in Costaguana that there never had been a conspiracy except in the diseased imagination of the Tyrant; and, therefore, nothing and no one to betray; though the most distinguished Costaguaneros had been imprisoned and executed upon that accusation. The procedure had dragged on for years, decimating the better class like a pestilence. The mere expression of sorrow for the fate of executed kinsmen had been punished with death. Don Jose Avellanos was perhaps the only one living who knew the whole story of those unspeakable cruelties. He had suffered from them himself, and he, with a shrug of the shoulders and a nervous, jerky gesture of the arm, was wont to put away from him, as it were, every allusion to it. But whatever the reason, Dr. Monygham, a personage in the administration of the Gould Concession, treated with reverent awe by the miners, and indulged in his peculiarities by Mrs. Gould, remained somehow outside the pale. It was not from any liking for the doctor that the engineer-in-chief had lingered in the inn upon the plain. He liked old Viola much better. He had come to look upon the Albergo d'ltalia Una as a dependence of the railway. Many of his subordinates had their quarters there. Mrs. Gould's interest in the family conferred upon it a sort of distinction. The engineer-in-chief, with an army of workers under his orders, appreciated the moral influence of the old Garibaldino upon his countrymen. His austere, old-world Republicanism had a severe, soldier-like standard of faithfulness and duty, as if the world were a battlefield where men had to fight for the sake of universal love and brotherhood, instead of a more or less large share of booty. "Poor old chap!" he said, after he had heard the doctor's account of Teresa. "He'll never be able to keep the place going by himself. I shall be sorry." "He's quite alone up there," grunted Doctor Monygham, with a toss of his heavy head towards the narrow staircase. "Every living soul has cleared out, and Mrs. Gould took the girls away just now. It might not be over-safe for them out here before very long. Of course, as a doctor I can do nothing more here; but she has asked me to stay with old Viola, and as I have no horse to get back to the mine, where I ought to be, I made no difficulty to stay. They can do without me in the town." "I have a good mind to remain with you, doctor, till we see whether anything happens to-night at the harbour," declared the engineer-in-chief. "He must not be molested by Sotillo's soldiery, who may push on as far as this at once. Sotillo used to be very cordial to me at the Goulds' and at the club. How that man'll ever dare to look any of his friends here in the face

withdrawal

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

was completely wet), disclosed to the toiling Decoud the eagerness of his face, bent low over the box of the compass, and the attentive stare of his eyes. He knew now where he was, and he hoped to run the sinking lighter ashore in the shallow cove where the high, cliff-like end of the Great Isabel is divided in two equal parts by a deep and overgrown ravine. Decoud pumped without intermission. Nostromo steered without relaxing for a second the intense, peering effort of his stare. Each of them was as if utterly alone with his task. It did not occur to them to speak. There was nothing in common between them but the knowledge that the damaged lighter must be slowly but surely sinking. In that knowledge, which was like the crucial test of their desires, they seemed to have become completely estranged, as if they had discovered in the very shock of the collision that the loss of the lighter would not mean the same thing to them both. This common danger brought their differences in aim, in view, in character, and in position, into absolute prominence in the private vision of each. There was no bond of conviction, of common idea; they were merely two adventurers pursuing each his own adventure, involved in the same imminence of deadly peril. Therefore they had nothing to say to each other. But this peril, this only incontrovertible truth in which they shared, seemed to act as an inspiration to their mental and bodily powers. There was certainly something almost miraculous in the way the Capataz made the cove with nothing but the shadowy hint of the island's shape and the vague gleam of a small sandy strip for a guide. Where the ravine opens between the cliffs, and a slender, shallow rivulet meanders out of the bushes to lose itself in the sea, the lighter was run ashore; and the two men, with a taciturn, undaunted energy, began to discharge her precious freight, carrying each ox-hide box up the bed of the rivulet beyond the bushes to a hollow place which the caving in of the soil had made below the roots of a large tree. Its big smooth trunk leaned like a falling column far over the trickle of water running amongst the loose stones. A couple of years before Nostromo had spent a whole Sunday, all alone, exploring the island. He explained this to Decoud after their task was done, and they sat, weary in every limb, with their legs hanging down the low bank, and their backs against the tree, like a pair of blind men aware of each other and their surroundings by some indefinable sixth sense. "Yes," Nostromo repeated, "I never forget a place I have carefully looked at once." He spoke slowly, almost lazily, as if there had been a whole leisurely life before him, instead of the scanty two hours before daylight. The existence of the treasure, barely concealed in this improbable spot, laid a burden of secrecy upon every contemplated step, upon every intention and plan of future conduct. He felt the partial failure of this desperate affair entrusted to the great reputation he had known how to make for himself. However, it was also a partial success. His vanity was half appeased. His nervous irritation had subsided. "You never know what may be of use," he pursued with his usual quietness of tone and manner. "I spent a whole miserable Sunday in exploring this crumb of land." "A misanthropic sort of occupation," muttered Decoud, viciously. "You had no money, I suppose, to gamble with, and to fling about amongst the girls in your usual haunts, Capataz." "_E vero!_" exclaimed the Capataz, surprised into the use of his native tongue by so much perspicacity. "I had not! Therefore I did not want to go amongst those beggarly people accustomed to my generosity. It is looked for from the Capataz of the Cargadores, who are the rich men, and, as it were, the Caballeros amongst the common people. I don't care for cards but as a pastime; and as to those girls that boast of having opened their doors to my knock, you know I wouldn't look at any one of them twice except for what the people would say. They are queer, the good people of Sulaco, and I have got much useful information simply by listening patiently to the talk of the women that everybody believed I was in love with. Poor Teresa could never understand that. On that particular Sunday, senor, she scolded so that I went out of the house swearing that I would never darken their door again unless to fetch away my hammock and my chest of clothes. Senor, there is nothing more exasperating than to hear a woman you respect rail against your good reputation when you have not a single brass coin in your pocket. I untied one of the small boats and pulled myself out of the harbour with nothing but three cigars in my pocket to help me spend the day on this island. But the water of this rivulet you hear under your feet is cool and sweet and good, senor, both before and after a smoke." He was silent for a while, then added reflectively, "That was the first Sunday after I brought down the white-whiskered English rico all the way down the mountains from the Paramo on the top of the Entrada Pass--and in the coach, too! No coach had gone up or down that mountain road within the memory of man, senor, till I brought this one down in charge of fifty peons working like one man with ropes, pickaxes, and poles under my direction. That was the rich Englishman who, as people say, pays for the making of this railway. He was very pleased with me. But my wages were not due till the end of the month." He slid down the bank suddenly. Decoud heard the splash of his feet in the brook and followed his footsteps down the ravine. His form was lost among the bushes till he had reached the strip of sand under the cliff. As often happens in the gulf when the showers during the first part of the night had been frequent and heavy, the darkness had thinned considerably towards the morning though there were no signs of daylight as yet. The cargo-lighter, relieved of its precious burden, rocked feebly, half-afloat, with her fore-foot on the sand. A long rope stretched away like a black cotton thread across the strip of white beach to the grapnel Nostromo had carried ashore and hooked to the stem of a tree-like shrub in the very opening of the ravine. There was nothing for Decoud but to remain on the island. He received from Nostromo's hands whatever food the foresight of Captain Mitchell had put on board the lighter and deposited it temporarily in the little dinghy which on their arrival they had hauled up out of sight amongst the bushes. It was to be left with him. The island was to be a hiding-place, not a prison; he could pull out to a passing ship. The O.S.N. Company's mail boats passed close to the islands when going into Sulaco from the north. But the Minerva, carrying off the ex-president, had taken the news up north of the disturbances in Sulaco. It was possible that the next steamer down would get instructions to miss the port altogether since the town, as far as the Minerva's officers knew, was for the time being in the hands of the rabble. This would mean that there would be no steamer for a month, as far as the mail service went; but Decoud had to take his chance of that. The island was his only shelter from the proscription hanging over his head. The Capataz was, of course, going back. The unloaded lighter leaked much less, and he thought that she would keep afloat as far as the harbour. He passed to Decoud, standing knee-deep alongside, one of the two spades which belonged to the equipment of each lighter for use when ballasting ships. By working with it carefully as soon as there was daylight enough to see, Decoud could loosen a mass of earth and stones overhanging the cavity in which they had deposited the treasure, so that it would look as if it had fallen naturally. It would cover up not only the cavity, but even all traces of their work, the footsteps, the displaced stones, and even the broken bushes. "Besides, who would think of looking either for you or the treasure here?" Nostromo continued, as if he could not tear himself away from the spot. "Nobody is ever likely to come here. What could any man want with this piece of earth as long as there is room for his feet on the mainland! The people in this country are not curious. There are even no fishermen here to intrude upon your worship. All the fishing that is done in the gulf goes on near Zapiga, over there. Senor, if you are forced to leave this island before anything can be arranged for you, do not try to make for Zapiga. It is a settlement of thieves and matreros, where they would cut your throat promptly for the sake of your gold watch and chain. And, senor, think twice before confiding in any one whatever; even in the officers of the Company's steamers, if you ever get on board one. Honesty alone is not enough for security. You must look to discretion and prudence in a man. And always remember, senor, before you open your lips for a confidence, that this treasure may be left safely here for hundreds of years. Time is on its side, senor. And silver is an incorruptible metal that can be trusted to keep its value for ever. . . . An incorruptible metal," he repeated, as if the idea had given him a profound pleasure. "As some men are said to be," Decoud pronounced, inscrutably, while the Capataz, who busied himself in baling out the lighter with a wooden bucket, went on throwing the water over the side with a regular splash. Decoud, incorrigible in his scepticism, reflected, not cynically, but with general satisfaction, that this man was made incorruptible by his enormous vanity, that finest form of egoism which can take on the aspect of every virtue. Nostromo ceased baling, and, as if struck with a sudden thought, dropped the bucket with a clatter into the lighter. "Have you any message?" he asked in a lowered voice. "Remember, I shall be asked questions." "You must find the hopeful words that ought to be spoken to the people in town. I trust for that your intelligence and your experience, Capataz. You understand?" "Si, senor. . . . For the ladies." "Yes, yes," said Decoud, hastily. "Your wonderful reputation will make them attach great value to your words; therefore be careful what you say. I am looking forward," he continued, feeling the fatal touch of contempt for himself to which his complex nature was subject, "I am looking forward to a glorious and successful ending to my mission. Do you hear, Capataz? Use the words glorious and successful when you speak to the senorita. Your own mission is accomplished gloriously and successfully. You have indubitably saved the silver of the mine. Not only this silver, but probably all the silver that shall ever come out of it." Nostromo detected the ironic tone. "I dare say, Senor Don Martin," he said, moodily. "There are very few things that I am not equal to. Ask the foreign signori. I, a man of the people, who cannot always understand what you mean. But as to this lot which I must leave here, let me tell you that I would believe it in greater safety if you had not been with me at all." An exclamation escaped Decoud, and a short pause followed. "Shall I go back with you to Sulaco?" he asked in an angry tone. "Shall I strike you dead with my knife where you stand?" retorted Nostromo, contemptuously. "It would be the same thing as taking you to Sulaco. Come, senor. Your reputation is in your politics, and mine is bound up with the fate of this silver. Do you wonder I wish there had been no other man to share my knowledge? I wanted no one with me, senor." "You could not have kept the lighter afloat without me," Decoud almost shouted. "You would have gone to the bottom with her." "Yes," uttered Nostromo, slowly; "alone." Here was a man, Decoud reflected, that seemed as though he would have preferred to die rather than deface the perfect form of his egoism. Such a man was safe. In silence he helped the Capataz to get the grapnel on board. Nostromo cleared the shelving shore with one push of the heavy oar, and Decoud found himself solitary on the beach like a man in a dream. A sudden desire to hear a human voice once more seized upon his heart. The lighter was hardly distinguishable from the black water upon which she floated. "What do you think has become of Hirsch?" he shouted. "Knocked overboard and drowned," cried Nostromo's voice confidently out of the black wastes of sky and sea around the islet. "Keep close in the ravine, senor. I shall try to come out to you in a night or two." A slight swishing rustle showed that Nostromo was setting the sail. It filled all at once with a sound as of a single loud drum-tap. Decoud went back to the ravine. Nostromo, at the tiller, looked back from time to time at the vanishing mass of the Great Isabel, which, little by little, merged into the uniform texture of the night. At last, when he turned his head again, he saw nothing but a smooth darkness, like a solid wall. Then he, too, experienced that feeling of solitude which had weighed heavily on Decoud after the lighter had slipped off the shore. But while the man on the island was oppressed by a bizarre sense of unreality affecting the very ground upon which he walked, the mind of the Capataz of the Cargadores turned alertly to the problem of future conduct. Nostromo's faculties, working on parallel lines, enabled him to steer straight, to keep a look-out for Hermosa, near which he had to pass, and to try to imagine what would happen tomorrow in Sulaco. To-morrow, or, as a matter of fact, to-day, since the dawn was not very far, Sotillo would find out in what way the treasure had gone. A gang of Cargadores had been employed in loading it into a railway truck from the Custom House store-rooms, and running the truck on to the wharf. There would be arrests made, and certainly before noon Sotillo would know in what manner the silver had left Sulaco, and who it was that took it out. Nostromo's intention had been to sail right into the harbour; but at this thought by a sudden touch of the tiller he threw the lighter into the wind and checked her rapid way. His re-appearance with the very boat would raise suspicions, would cause surmises, would absolutely put Sotillo on the track. He himself would be arrested; and once in the Calabozo there was no saying what they would do to him to make him speak. He trusted himself, but he stood up to look round. Near by, Hermosa showed low its white surface as flat as a table, with the slight run of the sea raised by the breeze washing over its edges noisily. The lighter must be sunk at once. He allowed her to drift with her sail aback. There was already a good deal of water in her. He allowed her to drift towards the harbour entrance, and, letting the tiller swing about, squatted down and busied himself in loosening the plug. With that out she would fill very quickly, and every lighter carried a little iron ballast--enough to make her go down when full of water. When he stood up again the noisy wash about the Hermosa sounded far away, almost inaudible; and already he could make out the shape of land about the harbour entrance. This was a desperate affair, and he was a good swimmer. A mile was nothing to him, and he knew of an easy place for landing just below the earthworks of the old abandoned fort. It occurred to him with a peculiar fascination that this fort was a good place in which to sleep the day through after so many sleepless nights. With one blow of the tiller he unshipped for the purpose, he knocked the plug out, but did not take the trouble to lower the sail. He felt the water welling up heavily about his legs before he leaped on to the taffrail. There, upright and motionless, in his shirt and trousers only, he stood waiting. When he had felt her settle he sprang far away with a mighty splash. At once he turned his head. The gloomy, clouded dawn from behind the mountains showed him on the smooth waters the upper corner of the sail, a dark wet triangle of canvas waving slightly to and fro. He saw it vanish, as if jerked under, and then struck out for the shore. PART THIRD THE LIGHTHOUSE CHAPTER ONE Directly the cargo boat had slipped away from the wharf and got lost in the darkness of the harbour the Europeans of Sulaco separated, to prepare for the coming of the Monterist regime, which was approaching Sulaco from the mountains, as well as from the sea. This bit of manual work in loading the silver was their last concerted action. It ended the three days of danger, during which, according to the newspaper press of Europe, their energy had preserved the town from the calamities of popular disorder. At the shore end of the jetty, Captain Mitchell said good-night and turned back. His intention was to walk the planks of the wharf till the steamer from Esmeralda turned up. The engineers of the railway staff, collecting their Basque and Italian workmen, marched them away to the railway yards, leaving the Custom House, so well defended on the first day of the riot, standing open to the four winds of heaven. Their men had conducted themselves bravely and faithfully during the famous "three days" of Sulaco. In a great part this faithfulness and that courage had been exercised in self-defence rather than in the cause of those material interests to which Charles Gould had pinned his faith. Amongst the cries of the mob not the least loud had been the cry of death to foreigners. It was, indeed, a lucky circumstance for Sulaco that the relations of those imported workmen with the people of the country had been uniformly bad from the first. Doctor Monygham, going to the door of Viola's kitchen, observed this retreat marking the end of the foreign interference, this withdrawal of the army of material progress from the field of Costaguana revolutions. Algarrobe torches carried on the outskirts of the moving body sent their penetrating aroma into his nostrils. Their light, sweeping along the front of the house, made the letters of the inscription, "Albergo d'ltalia Una," leap out black from end to end of the long wall. His eyes blinked in the clear blaze. Several young men, mostly fair and tall, shepherding this mob of dark bronzed heads, surmounted by the glint of slanting rifle barrels, nodded to him familiarly as they went by. The doctor was a well-known character. Some of them wondered what he was doing there. Then, on the flank of their workmen they tramped on, following the line of rails. "Withdrawing your people from the harbour?" said the doctor, addressing himself to the chief engineer of the railway, who had accompanied Charles Gould so far on his way to the town, walking by the side of the horse, with his hand on the saddle-bow. They had stopped just outside the open door to let the workmen cross the road. "As quick as I can. We are not a political faction," answered the engineer, meaningly. "And we are not going to give our new rulers a handle against the railway. You approve me, Gould?" "Absolutely," said Charles Gould's impassive voice, high up and outside the dim parallelogram of light falling on the road through the open door. With Sotillo expected from one side, and Pedro Montero from the other, the engineer-in-chief's only anxiety now was to avoid a collision with either. Sulaco, for him, was a railway station, a terminus, workshops, a great accumulation of stores. As against the mob the railway defended its property, but politically the railway was neutral. He was a brave man; and in that spirit of neutrality he had carried proposals of truce to the self-appointed chiefs of the popular party, the deputies Fuentes and Gamacho. Bullets were still flying about when he had crossed the Plaza on that mission, waving above his head a white napkin belonging to the table linen of the Amarilla Club. He was rather proud of this exploit; and reflecting that the doctor, busy all day with the wounded in the patio of the Casa Gould, had not had time to hear the news, he began a succinct narrative. He had communicated to them the intelligence from the Construction Camp as to Pedro Montero. The brother of the victorious general, he had assured them, could be expected at Sulaco at any time now. This news (as he anticipated), when shouted out of the window by Senor Gamacho, induced a rush of the mob along the Campo Road towards Rincon. The two deputies also, after shaking hands with him effusively, mounted and galloped off to meet the great man. "I have misled them a little as to the time," the chief engineer confessed. "However hard he rides, he can scarcely get here before the morning. But my object is attained. I've secured several hours' peace for the losing party. But I did not tell them anything about Sotillo, for fear they would take it into their heads to try to get hold of the harbour again, either to oppose him or welcome him--there's no saying which. There was Gould's silver, on which rests the remnant of our hopes. Decoud's retreat had to be thought of, too. I think the railway has done pretty well by its friends without compromising itself hopelessly. Now the parties must be left to themselves." "Costaguana for the Costaguaneros," interjected the doctor, sardonically. "It is a fine country, and they have raised a fine crop of hates, vengeance, murder, and rapine--those sons of the country." "Well, I am one of them," Charles Gould's voice sounded, calmly, "and I must be going on to see to my own crop of trouble. My wife has driven straight on, doctor?" "Yes. All was quiet on this side. Mrs. Gould has taken the two girls with her." Charles Gould rode on, and the engineer-in-chief followed the doctor indoors. "That man is calmness personified," he said, appreciatively, dropping on a bench, and stretching his well-shaped legs in cycling stockings nearly across the doorway. "He must be extremely sure of himself." "If that's all he is sure of, then he is sure of nothing," said the doctor. He had perched himself again on the end of the table. He nursed his cheek in the palm of one hand, while the other sustained the elbow. "It is the last thing a man ought to be sure of." The candle, half-consumed and burning dimly with a long wick, lighted up from below his inclined face, whose expression affected by the drawn-in cicatrices in the cheeks, had something vaguely unnatural, an exaggerated remorseful bitterness. As he sat there he had the air of meditating upon sinister things. The engineer-in-chief gazed at him for a time before he protested. "I really don't see that. For me there seems to be nothing else. However----" He was a wise man, but he could not quite conceal his contempt for that sort of paradox; in fact. Dr. Monygham was not liked by the Europeans of Sulaco. His outward aspect of an outcast, which he preserved even in Mrs. Gould's drawing-room, provoked unfavourable criticism. There could be no doubt of his intelligence; and as he had lived for over twenty years in the country, the pessimism of his outlook could not be altogether ignored. But instinctively, in self-defence of their activities and hopes, his hearers put it to the account of some hidden imperfection in the man's character. It was known that many years before, when quite young, he had been made by Guzman Bento chief medical officer of the army. Not one of the Europeans then in the service of Costaguana had been so much liked and trusted by the fierce old Dictator. Afterwards his story was not so clear. It lost itself amongst the innumerable tales of conspiracies and plots against the tyrant as a stream is lost in an arid belt of sandy country before it emerges, diminished and troubled, perhaps, on the other side. The doctor made no secret of it that he had lived for years in the wildest parts of the Republic, wandering with almost unknown Indian tribes in the great forests of the far interior where the great rivers have their sources. But it was mere aimless wandering; he had written nothing, collected nothing, brought nothing for science out of the twilight of the forests, which seemed to cling to his battered personality limping about Sulaco, where it had drifted in casually, only to get stranded on the shores of the sea. It was also known that he had lived in a state of destitution till the arrival of the Goulds from Europe. Don Carlos and Dona Emilia had taken up the mad English doctor, when it became apparent that for all his savage independence he could be tamed by kindness. Perhaps it was only hunger that had tamed him. In years gone by he had certainly been acquainted with Charles Gould's father in Sta. Marta; and now, no matter what were the dark passages of his history, as the medical officer of the San Tome mine he became a recognized personality. He was recognized, but not unreservedly accepted. So much defiant eccentricity and such an outspoken scorn for mankind seemed to point to mere recklessness of judgment, the bravado of guilt. Besides, since he had become again of some account, vague whispers had been heard that years ago, when fallen into disgrace and thrown into prison by Guzman Bento at the time of the so-called Great Conspiracy, he had betrayed some of his best friends amongst the conspirators. Nobody pretended to believe that whisper; the whole story of the Great Conspiracy was hopelessly involved and obscure; it is admitted in Costaguana that there never had been a conspiracy except in the diseased imagination of the Tyrant; and, therefore, nothing and no one to betray; though the most distinguished Costaguaneros had been imprisoned and executed upon that accusation. The procedure had dragged on for years, decimating the better class like a pestilence. The mere expression of sorrow for the fate of executed kinsmen had been punished with death. Don Jose Avellanos was perhaps the only one living who knew the whole story of those unspeakable cruelties. He had suffered from them himself, and he, with a shrug of the shoulders and a nervous, jerky gesture of the arm, was wont to put away from him, as it were, every allusion to it. But whatever the reason, Dr. Monygham, a personage in the administration of the Gould Concession, treated with reverent awe by the miners, and indulged in his peculiarities by Mrs. Gould, remained somehow outside the pale. It was not from any liking for the doctor that the engineer-in-chief had lingered in the inn upon the plain. He liked old Viola much better. He had come to look upon the Albergo d'ltalia Una as a dependence of the railway. Many of his subordinates had their quarters there. Mrs. Gould's interest in the family conferred upon it a sort of distinction. The engineer-in-chief, with an army of workers under his orders, appreciated the moral influence of the old Garibaldino upon his countrymen. His austere, old-world Republicanism had a severe, soldier-like standard of faithfulness and duty, as if the world were a battlefield where men had to fight for the sake of universal love and brotherhood, instead of a more or less large share of booty. "Poor old chap!" he said, after he had heard the doctor's account of Teresa. "He'll never be able to keep the place going by himself. I shall be sorry." "He's quite alone up there," grunted Doctor Monygham, with a toss of his heavy head towards the narrow staircase. "Every living soul has cleared out, and Mrs. Gould took the girls away just now. It might not be over-safe for them out here before very long. Of course, as a doctor I can do nothing more here; but she has asked me to stay with old Viola, and as I have no horse to get back to the mine, where I ought to be, I made no difficulty to stay. They can do without me in the town." "I have a good mind to remain with you, doctor, till we see whether anything happens to-night at the harbour," declared the engineer-in-chief. "He must not be molested by Sotillo's soldiery, who may push on as far as this at once. Sotillo used to be very cordial to me at the Goulds' and at the club. How that man'll ever dare to look any of his friends here in the face

tell

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

was completely wet), disclosed to the toiling Decoud the eagerness of his face, bent low over the box of the compass, and the attentive stare of his eyes. He knew now where he was, and he hoped to run the sinking lighter ashore in the shallow cove where the high, cliff-like end of the Great Isabel is divided in two equal parts by a deep and overgrown ravine. Decoud pumped without intermission. Nostromo steered without relaxing for a second the intense, peering effort of his stare. Each of them was as if utterly alone with his task. It did not occur to them to speak. There was nothing in common between them but the knowledge that the damaged lighter must be slowly but surely sinking. In that knowledge, which was like the crucial test of their desires, they seemed to have become completely estranged, as if they had discovered in the very shock of the collision that the loss of the lighter would not mean the same thing to them both. This common danger brought their differences in aim, in view, in character, and in position, into absolute prominence in the private vision of each. There was no bond of conviction, of common idea; they were merely two adventurers pursuing each his own adventure, involved in the same imminence of deadly peril. Therefore they had nothing to say to each other. But this peril, this only incontrovertible truth in which they shared, seemed to act as an inspiration to their mental and bodily powers. There was certainly something almost miraculous in the way the Capataz made the cove with nothing but the shadowy hint of the island's shape and the vague gleam of a small sandy strip for a guide. Where the ravine opens between the cliffs, and a slender, shallow rivulet meanders out of the bushes to lose itself in the sea, the lighter was run ashore; and the two men, with a taciturn, undaunted energy, began to discharge her precious freight, carrying each ox-hide box up the bed of the rivulet beyond the bushes to a hollow place which the caving in of the soil had made below the roots of a large tree. Its big smooth trunk leaned like a falling column far over the trickle of water running amongst the loose stones. A couple of years before Nostromo had spent a whole Sunday, all alone, exploring the island. He explained this to Decoud after their task was done, and they sat, weary in every limb, with their legs hanging down the low bank, and their backs against the tree, like a pair of blind men aware of each other and their surroundings by some indefinable sixth sense. "Yes," Nostromo repeated, "I never forget a place I have carefully looked at once." He spoke slowly, almost lazily, as if there had been a whole leisurely life before him, instead of the scanty two hours before daylight. The existence of the treasure, barely concealed in this improbable spot, laid a burden of secrecy upon every contemplated step, upon every intention and plan of future conduct. He felt the partial failure of this desperate affair entrusted to the great reputation he had known how to make for himself. However, it was also a partial success. His vanity was half appeased. His nervous irritation had subsided. "You never know what may be of use," he pursued with his usual quietness of tone and manner. "I spent a whole miserable Sunday in exploring this crumb of land." "A misanthropic sort of occupation," muttered Decoud, viciously. "You had no money, I suppose, to gamble with, and to fling about amongst the girls in your usual haunts, Capataz." "_E vero!_" exclaimed the Capataz, surprised into the use of his native tongue by so much perspicacity. "I had not! Therefore I did not want to go amongst those beggarly people accustomed to my generosity. It is looked for from the Capataz of the Cargadores, who are the rich men, and, as it were, the Caballeros amongst the common people. I don't care for cards but as a pastime; and as to those girls that boast of having opened their doors to my knock, you know I wouldn't look at any one of them twice except for what the people would say. They are queer, the good people of Sulaco, and I have got much useful information simply by listening patiently to the talk of the women that everybody believed I was in love with. Poor Teresa could never understand that. On that particular Sunday, senor, she scolded so that I went out of the house swearing that I would never darken their door again unless to fetch away my hammock and my chest of clothes. Senor, there is nothing more exasperating than to hear a woman you respect rail against your good reputation when you have not a single brass coin in your pocket. I untied one of the small boats and pulled myself out of the harbour with nothing but three cigars in my pocket to help me spend the day on this island. But the water of this rivulet you hear under your feet is cool and sweet and good, senor, both before and after a smoke." He was silent for a while, then added reflectively, "That was the first Sunday after I brought down the white-whiskered English rico all the way down the mountains from the Paramo on the top of the Entrada Pass--and in the coach, too! No coach had gone up or down that mountain road within the memory of man, senor, till I brought this one down in charge of fifty peons working like one man with ropes, pickaxes, and poles under my direction. That was the rich Englishman who, as people say, pays for the making of this railway. He was very pleased with me. But my wages were not due till the end of the month." He slid down the bank suddenly. Decoud heard the splash of his feet in the brook and followed his footsteps down the ravine. His form was lost among the bushes till he had reached the strip of sand under the cliff. As often happens in the gulf when the showers during the first part of the night had been frequent and heavy, the darkness had thinned considerably towards the morning though there were no signs of daylight as yet. The cargo-lighter, relieved of its precious burden, rocked feebly, half-afloat, with her fore-foot on the sand. A long rope stretched away like a black cotton thread across the strip of white beach to the grapnel Nostromo had carried ashore and hooked to the stem of a tree-like shrub in the very opening of the ravine. There was nothing for Decoud but to remain on the island. He received from Nostromo's hands whatever food the foresight of Captain Mitchell had put on board the lighter and deposited it temporarily in the little dinghy which on their arrival they had hauled up out of sight amongst the bushes. It was to be left with him. The island was to be a hiding-place, not a prison; he could pull out to a passing ship. The O.S.N. Company's mail boats passed close to the islands when going into Sulaco from the north. But the Minerva, carrying off the ex-president, had taken the news up north of the disturbances in Sulaco. It was possible that the next steamer down would get instructions to miss the port altogether since the town, as far as the Minerva's officers knew, was for the time being in the hands of the rabble. This would mean that there would be no steamer for a month, as far as the mail service went; but Decoud had to take his chance of that. The island was his only shelter from the proscription hanging over his head. The Capataz was, of course, going back. The unloaded lighter leaked much less, and he thought that she would keep afloat as far as the harbour. He passed to Decoud, standing knee-deep alongside, one of the two spades which belonged to the equipment of each lighter for use when ballasting ships. By working with it carefully as soon as there was daylight enough to see, Decoud could loosen a mass of earth and stones overhanging the cavity in which they had deposited the treasure, so that it would look as if it had fallen naturally. It would cover up not only the cavity, but even all traces of their work, the footsteps, the displaced stones, and even the broken bushes. "Besides, who would think of looking either for you or the treasure here?" Nostromo continued, as if he could not tear himself away from the spot. "Nobody is ever likely to come here. What could any man want with this piece of earth as long as there is room for his feet on the mainland! The people in this country are not curious. There are even no fishermen here to intrude upon your worship. All the fishing that is done in the gulf goes on near Zapiga, over there. Senor, if you are forced to leave this island before anything can be arranged for you, do not try to make for Zapiga. It is a settlement of thieves and matreros, where they would cut your throat promptly for the sake of your gold watch and chain. And, senor, think twice before confiding in any one whatever; even in the officers of the Company's steamers, if you ever get on board one. Honesty alone is not enough for security. You must look to discretion and prudence in a man. And always remember, senor, before you open your lips for a confidence, that this treasure may be left safely here for hundreds of years. Time is on its side, senor. And silver is an incorruptible metal that can be trusted to keep its value for ever. . . . An incorruptible metal," he repeated, as if the idea had given him a profound pleasure. "As some men are said to be," Decoud pronounced, inscrutably, while the Capataz, who busied himself in baling out the lighter with a wooden bucket, went on throwing the water over the side with a regular splash. Decoud, incorrigible in his scepticism, reflected, not cynically, but with general satisfaction, that this man was made incorruptible by his enormous vanity, that finest form of egoism which can take on the aspect of every virtue. Nostromo ceased baling, and, as if struck with a sudden thought, dropped the bucket with a clatter into the lighter. "Have you any message?" he asked in a lowered voice. "Remember, I shall be asked questions." "You must find the hopeful words that ought to be spoken to the people in town. I trust for that your intelligence and your experience, Capataz. You understand?" "Si, senor. . . . For the ladies." "Yes, yes," said Decoud, hastily. "Your wonderful reputation will make them attach great value to your words; therefore be careful what you say. I am looking forward," he continued, feeling the fatal touch of contempt for himself to which his complex nature was subject, "I am looking forward to a glorious and successful ending to my mission. Do you hear, Capataz? Use the words glorious and successful when you speak to the senorita. Your own mission is accomplished gloriously and successfully. You have indubitably saved the silver of the mine. Not only this silver, but probably all the silver that shall ever come out of it." Nostromo detected the ironic tone. "I dare say, Senor Don Martin," he said, moodily. "There are very few things that I am not equal to. Ask the foreign signori. I, a man of the people, who cannot always understand what you mean. But as to this lot which I must leave here, let me tell you that I would believe it in greater safety if you had not been with me at all." An exclamation escaped Decoud, and a short pause followed. "Shall I go back with you to Sulaco?" he asked in an angry tone. "Shall I strike you dead with my knife where you stand?" retorted Nostromo, contemptuously. "It would be the same thing as taking you to Sulaco. Come, senor. Your reputation is in your politics, and mine is bound up with the fate of this silver. Do you wonder I wish there had been no other man to share my knowledge? I wanted no one with me, senor." "You could not have kept the lighter afloat without me," Decoud almost shouted. "You would have gone to the bottom with her." "Yes," uttered Nostromo, slowly; "alone." Here was a man, Decoud reflected, that seemed as though he would have preferred to die rather than deface the perfect form of his egoism. Such a man was safe. In silence he helped the Capataz to get the grapnel on board. Nostromo cleared the shelving shore with one push of the heavy oar, and Decoud found himself solitary on the beach like a man in a dream. A sudden desire to hear a human voice once more seized upon his heart. The lighter was hardly distinguishable from the black water upon which she floated. "What do you think has become of Hirsch?" he shouted. "Knocked overboard and drowned," cried Nostromo's voice confidently out of the black wastes of sky and sea around the islet. "Keep close in the ravine, senor. I shall try to come out to you in a night or two." A slight swishing rustle showed that Nostromo was setting the sail. It filled all at once with a sound as of a single loud drum-tap. Decoud went back to the ravine. Nostromo, at the tiller, looked back from time to time at the vanishing mass of the Great Isabel, which, little by little, merged into the uniform texture of the night. At last, when he turned his head again, he saw nothing but a smooth darkness, like a solid wall. Then he, too, experienced that feeling of solitude which had weighed heavily on Decoud after the lighter had slipped off the shore. But while the man on the island was oppressed by a bizarre sense of unreality affecting the very ground upon which he walked, the mind of the Capataz of the Cargadores turned alertly to the problem of future conduct. Nostromo's faculties, working on parallel lines, enabled him to steer straight, to keep a look-out for Hermosa, near which he had to pass, and to try to imagine what would happen tomorrow in Sulaco. To-morrow, or, as a matter of fact, to-day, since the dawn was not very far, Sotillo would find out in what way the treasure had gone. A gang of Cargadores had been employed in loading it into a railway truck from the Custom House store-rooms, and running the truck on to the wharf. There would be arrests made, and certainly before noon Sotillo would know in what manner the silver had left Sulaco, and who it was that took it out. Nostromo's intention had been to sail right into the harbour; but at this thought by a sudden touch of the tiller he threw the lighter into the wind and checked her rapid way. His re-appearance with the very boat would raise suspicions, would cause surmises, would absolutely put Sotillo on the track. He himself would be arrested; and once in the Calabozo there was no saying what they would do to him to make him speak. He trusted himself, but he stood up to look round. Near by, Hermosa showed low its white surface as flat as a table, with the slight run of the sea raised by the breeze washing over its edges noisily. The lighter must be sunk at once. He allowed her to drift with her sail aback. There was already a good deal of water in her. He allowed her to drift towards the harbour entrance, and, letting the tiller swing about, squatted down and busied himself in loosening the plug. With that out she would fill very quickly, and every lighter carried a little iron ballast--enough to make her go down when full of water. When he stood up again the noisy wash about the Hermosa sounded far away, almost inaudible; and already he could make out the shape of land about the harbour entrance. This was a desperate affair, and he was a good swimmer. A mile was nothing to him, and he knew of an easy place for landing just below the earthworks of the old abandoned fort. It occurred to him with a peculiar fascination that this fort was a good place in which to sleep the day through after so many sleepless nights. With one blow of the tiller he unshipped for the purpose, he knocked the plug out, but did not take the trouble to lower the sail. He felt the water welling up heavily about his legs before he leaped on to the taffrail. There, upright and motionless, in his shirt and trousers only, he stood waiting. When he had felt her settle he sprang far away with a mighty splash. At once he turned his head. The gloomy, clouded dawn from behind the mountains showed him on the smooth waters the upper corner of the sail, a dark wet triangle of canvas waving slightly to and fro. He saw it vanish, as if jerked under, and then struck out for the shore. PART THIRD THE LIGHTHOUSE CHAPTER ONE Directly the cargo boat had slipped away from the wharf and got lost in the darkness of the harbour the Europeans of Sulaco separated, to prepare for the coming of the Monterist regime, which was approaching Sulaco from the mountains, as well as from the sea. This bit of manual work in loading the silver was their last concerted action. It ended the three days of danger, during which, according to the newspaper press of Europe, their energy had preserved the town from the calamities of popular disorder. At the shore end of the jetty, Captain Mitchell said good-night and turned back. His intention was to walk the planks of the wharf till the steamer from Esmeralda turned up. The engineers of the railway staff, collecting their Basque and Italian workmen, marched them away to the railway yards, leaving the Custom House, so well defended on the first day of the riot, standing open to the four winds of heaven. Their men had conducted themselves bravely and faithfully during the famous "three days" of Sulaco. In a great part this faithfulness and that courage had been exercised in self-defence rather than in the cause of those material interests to which Charles Gould had pinned his faith. Amongst the cries of the mob not the least loud had been the cry of death to foreigners. It was, indeed, a lucky circumstance for Sulaco that the relations of those imported workmen with the people of the country had been uniformly bad from the first. Doctor Monygham, going to the door of Viola's kitchen, observed this retreat marking the end of the foreign interference, this withdrawal of the army of material progress from the field of Costaguana revolutions. Algarrobe torches carried on the outskirts of the moving body sent their penetrating aroma into his nostrils. Their light, sweeping along the front of the house, made the letters of the inscription, "Albergo d'ltalia Una," leap out black from end to end of the long wall. His eyes blinked in the clear blaze. Several young men, mostly fair and tall, shepherding this mob of dark bronzed heads, surmounted by the glint of slanting rifle barrels, nodded to him familiarly as they went by. The doctor was a well-known character. Some of them wondered what he was doing there. Then, on the flank of their workmen they tramped on, following the line of rails. "Withdrawing your people from the harbour?" said the doctor, addressing himself to the chief engineer of the railway, who had accompanied Charles Gould so far on his way to the town, walking by the side of the horse, with his hand on the saddle-bow. They had stopped just outside the open door to let the workmen cross the road. "As quick as I can. We are not a political faction," answered the engineer, meaningly. "And we are not going to give our new rulers a handle against the railway. You approve me, Gould?" "Absolutely," said Charles Gould's impassive voice, high up and outside the dim parallelogram of light falling on the road through the open door. With Sotillo expected from one side, and Pedro Montero from the other, the engineer-in-chief's only anxiety now was to avoid a collision with either. Sulaco, for him, was a railway station, a terminus, workshops, a great accumulation of stores. As against the mob the railway defended its property, but politically the railway was neutral. He was a brave man; and in that spirit of neutrality he had carried proposals of truce to the self-appointed chiefs of the popular party, the deputies Fuentes and Gamacho. Bullets were still flying about when he had crossed the Plaza on that mission, waving above his head a white napkin belonging to the table linen of the Amarilla Club. He was rather proud of this exploit; and reflecting that the doctor, busy all day with the wounded in the patio of the Casa Gould, had not had time to hear the news, he began a succinct narrative. He had communicated to them the intelligence from the Construction Camp as to Pedro Montero. The brother of the victorious general, he had assured them, could be expected at Sulaco at any time now. This news (as he anticipated), when shouted out of the window by Senor Gamacho, induced a rush of the mob along the Campo Road towards Rincon. The two deputies also, after shaking hands with him effusively, mounted and galloped off to meet the great man. "I have misled them a little as to the time," the chief engineer confessed. "However hard he rides, he can scarcely get here before the morning. But my object is attained. I've secured several hours' peace for the losing party. But I did not tell them anything about Sotillo, for fear they would take it into their heads to try to get hold of the harbour again, either to oppose him or welcome him--there's no saying which. There was Gould's silver, on which rests the remnant of our hopes. Decoud's retreat had to be thought of, too. I think the railway has done pretty well by its friends without compromising itself hopelessly. Now the parties must be left to themselves." "Costaguana for the Costaguaneros," interjected the doctor, sardonically. "It is a fine country, and they have raised a fine crop of hates, vengeance, murder, and rapine--those sons of the country." "Well, I am one of them," Charles Gould's voice sounded, calmly, "and I must be going on to see to my own crop of trouble. My wife has driven straight on, doctor?" "Yes. All was quiet on this side. Mrs. Gould has taken the two girls with her." Charles Gould rode on, and the engineer-in-chief followed the doctor indoors. "That man is calmness personified," he said, appreciatively, dropping on a bench, and stretching his well-shaped legs in cycling stockings nearly across the doorway. "He must be extremely sure of himself." "If that's all he is sure of, then he is sure of nothing," said the doctor. He had perched himself again on the end of the table. He nursed his cheek in the palm of one hand, while the other sustained the elbow. "It is the last thing a man ought to be sure of." The candle, half-consumed and burning dimly with a long wick, lighted up from below his inclined face, whose expression affected by the drawn-in cicatrices in the cheeks, had something vaguely unnatural, an exaggerated remorseful bitterness. As he sat there he had the air of meditating upon sinister things. The engineer-in-chief gazed at him for a time before he protested. "I really don't see that. For me there seems to be nothing else. However----" He was a wise man, but he could not quite conceal his contempt for that sort of paradox; in fact. Dr. Monygham was not liked by the Europeans of Sulaco. His outward aspect of an outcast, which he preserved even in Mrs. Gould's drawing-room, provoked unfavourable criticism. There could be no doubt of his intelligence; and as he had lived for over twenty years in the country, the pessimism of his outlook could not be altogether ignored. But instinctively, in self-defence of their activities and hopes, his hearers put it to the account of some hidden imperfection in the man's character. It was known that many years before, when quite young, he had been made by Guzman Bento chief medical officer of the army. Not one of the Europeans then in the service of Costaguana had been so much liked and trusted by the fierce old Dictator. Afterwards his story was not so clear. It lost itself amongst the innumerable tales of conspiracies and plots against the tyrant as a stream is lost in an arid belt of sandy country before it emerges, diminished and troubled, perhaps, on the other side. The doctor made no secret of it that he had lived for years in the wildest parts of the Republic, wandering with almost unknown Indian tribes in the great forests of the far interior where the great rivers have their sources. But it was mere aimless wandering; he had written nothing, collected nothing, brought nothing for science out of the twilight of the forests, which seemed to cling to his battered personality limping about Sulaco, where it had drifted in casually, only to get stranded on the shores of the sea. It was also known that he had lived in a state of destitution till the arrival of the Goulds from Europe. Don Carlos and Dona Emilia had taken up the mad English doctor, when it became apparent that for all his savage independence he could be tamed by kindness. Perhaps it was only hunger that had tamed him. In years gone by he had certainly been acquainted with Charles Gould's father in Sta. Marta; and now, no matter what were the dark passages of his history, as the medical officer of the San Tome mine he became a recognized personality. He was recognized, but not unreservedly accepted. So much defiant eccentricity and such an outspoken scorn for mankind seemed to point to mere recklessness of judgment, the bravado of guilt. Besides, since he had become again of some account, vague whispers had been heard that years ago, when fallen into disgrace and thrown into prison by Guzman Bento at the time of the so-called Great Conspiracy, he had betrayed some of his best friends amongst the conspirators. Nobody pretended to believe that whisper; the whole story of the Great Conspiracy was hopelessly involved and obscure; it is admitted in Costaguana that there never had been a conspiracy except in the diseased imagination of the Tyrant; and, therefore, nothing and no one to betray; though the most distinguished Costaguaneros had been imprisoned and executed upon that accusation. The procedure had dragged on for years, decimating the better class like a pestilence. The mere expression of sorrow for the fate of executed kinsmen had been punished with death. Don Jose Avellanos was perhaps the only one living who knew the whole story of those unspeakable cruelties. He had suffered from them himself, and he, with a shrug of the shoulders and a nervous, jerky gesture of the arm, was wont to put away from him, as it were, every allusion to it. But whatever the reason, Dr. Monygham, a personage in the administration of the Gould Concession, treated with reverent awe by the miners, and indulged in his peculiarities by Mrs. Gould, remained somehow outside the pale. It was not from any liking for the doctor that the engineer-in-chief had lingered in the inn upon the plain. He liked old Viola much better. He had come to look upon the Albergo d'ltalia Una as a dependence of the railway. Many of his subordinates had their quarters there. Mrs. Gould's interest in the family conferred upon it a sort of distinction. The engineer-in-chief, with an army of workers under his orders, appreciated the moral influence of the old Garibaldino upon his countrymen. His austere, old-world Republicanism had a severe, soldier-like standard of faithfulness and duty, as if the world were a battlefield where men had to fight for the sake of universal love and brotherhood, instead of a more or less large share of booty. "Poor old chap!" he said, after he had heard the doctor's account of Teresa. "He'll never be able to keep the place going by himself. I shall be sorry." "He's quite alone up there," grunted Doctor Monygham, with a toss of his heavy head towards the narrow staircase. "Every living soul has cleared out, and Mrs. Gould took the girls away just now. It might not be over-safe for them out here before very long. Of course, as a doctor I can do nothing more here; but she has asked me to stay with old Viola, and as I have no horse to get back to the mine, where I ought to be, I made no difficulty to stay. They can do without me in the town." "I have a good mind to remain with you, doctor, till we see whether anything happens to-night at the harbour," declared the engineer-in-chief. "He must not be molested by Sotillo's soldiery, who may push on as far as this at once. Sotillo used to be very cordial to me at the Goulds' and at the club. How that man'll ever dare to look any of his friends here in the face

occupation

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

was completely wet), disclosed to the toiling Decoud the eagerness of his face, bent low over the box of the compass, and the attentive stare of his eyes. He knew now where he was, and he hoped to run the sinking lighter ashore in the shallow cove where the high, cliff-like end of the Great Isabel is divided in two equal parts by a deep and overgrown ravine. Decoud pumped without intermission. Nostromo steered without relaxing for a second the intense, peering effort of his stare. Each of them was as if utterly alone with his task. It did not occur to them to speak. There was nothing in common between them but the knowledge that the damaged lighter must be slowly but surely sinking. In that knowledge, which was like the crucial test of their desires, they seemed to have become completely estranged, as if they had discovered in the very shock of the collision that the loss of the lighter would not mean the same thing to them both. This common danger brought their differences in aim, in view, in character, and in position, into absolute prominence in the private vision of each. There was no bond of conviction, of common idea; they were merely two adventurers pursuing each his own adventure, involved in the same imminence of deadly peril. Therefore they had nothing to say to each other. But this peril, this only incontrovertible truth in which they shared, seemed to act as an inspiration to their mental and bodily powers. There was certainly something almost miraculous in the way the Capataz made the cove with nothing but the shadowy hint of the island's shape and the vague gleam of a small sandy strip for a guide. Where the ravine opens between the cliffs, and a slender, shallow rivulet meanders out of the bushes to lose itself in the sea, the lighter was run ashore; and the two men, with a taciturn, undaunted energy, began to discharge her precious freight, carrying each ox-hide box up the bed of the rivulet beyond the bushes to a hollow place which the caving in of the soil had made below the roots of a large tree. Its big smooth trunk leaned like a falling column far over the trickle of water running amongst the loose stones. A couple of years before Nostromo had spent a whole Sunday, all alone, exploring the island. He explained this to Decoud after their task was done, and they sat, weary in every limb, with their legs hanging down the low bank, and their backs against the tree, like a pair of blind men aware of each other and their surroundings by some indefinable sixth sense. "Yes," Nostromo repeated, "I never forget a place I have carefully looked at once." He spoke slowly, almost lazily, as if there had been a whole leisurely life before him, instead of the scanty two hours before daylight. The existence of the treasure, barely concealed in this improbable spot, laid a burden of secrecy upon every contemplated step, upon every intention and plan of future conduct. He felt the partial failure of this desperate affair entrusted to the great reputation he had known how to make for himself. However, it was also a partial success. His vanity was half appeased. His nervous irritation had subsided. "You never know what may be of use," he pursued with his usual quietness of tone and manner. "I spent a whole miserable Sunday in exploring this crumb of land." "A misanthropic sort of occupation," muttered Decoud, viciously. "You had no money, I suppose, to gamble with, and to fling about amongst the girls in your usual haunts, Capataz." "_E vero!_" exclaimed the Capataz, surprised into the use of his native tongue by so much perspicacity. "I had not! Therefore I did not want to go amongst those beggarly people accustomed to my generosity. It is looked for from the Capataz of the Cargadores, who are the rich men, and, as it were, the Caballeros amongst the common people. I don't care for cards but as a pastime; and as to those girls that boast of having opened their doors to my knock, you know I wouldn't look at any one of them twice except for what the people would say. They are queer, the good people of Sulaco, and I have got much useful information simply by listening patiently to the talk of the women that everybody believed I was in love with. Poor Teresa could never understand that. On that particular Sunday, senor, she scolded so that I went out of the house swearing that I would never darken their door again unless to fetch away my hammock and my chest of clothes. Senor, there is nothing more exasperating than to hear a woman you respect rail against your good reputation when you have not a single brass coin in your pocket. I untied one of the small boats and pulled myself out of the harbour with nothing but three cigars in my pocket to help me spend the day on this island. But the water of this rivulet you hear under your feet is cool and sweet and good, senor, both before and after a smoke." He was silent for a while, then added reflectively, "That was the first Sunday after I brought down the white-whiskered English rico all the way down the mountains from the Paramo on the top of the Entrada Pass--and in the coach, too! No coach had gone up or down that mountain road within the memory of man, senor, till I brought this one down in charge of fifty peons working like one man with ropes, pickaxes, and poles under my direction. That was the rich Englishman who, as people say, pays for the making of this railway. He was very pleased with me. But my wages were not due till the end of the month." He slid down the bank suddenly. Decoud heard the splash of his feet in the brook and followed his footsteps down the ravine. His form was lost among the bushes till he had reached the strip of sand under the cliff. As often happens in the gulf when the showers during the first part of the night had been frequent and heavy, the darkness had thinned considerably towards the morning though there were no signs of daylight as yet. The cargo-lighter, relieved of its precious burden, rocked feebly, half-afloat, with her fore-foot on the sand. A long rope stretched away like a black cotton thread across the strip of white beach to the grapnel Nostromo had carried ashore and hooked to the stem of a tree-like shrub in the very opening of the ravine. There was nothing for Decoud but to remain on the island. He received from Nostromo's hands whatever food the foresight of Captain Mitchell had put on board the lighter and deposited it temporarily in the little dinghy which on their arrival they had hauled up out of sight amongst the bushes. It was to be left with him. The island was to be a hiding-place, not a prison; he could pull out to a passing ship. The O.S.N. Company's mail boats passed close to the islands when going into Sulaco from the north. But the Minerva, carrying off the ex-president, had taken the news up north of the disturbances in Sulaco. It was possible that the next steamer down would get instructions to miss the port altogether since the town, as far as the Minerva's officers knew, was for the time being in the hands of the rabble. This would mean that there would be no steamer for a month, as far as the mail service went; but Decoud had to take his chance of that. The island was his only shelter from the proscription hanging over his head. The Capataz was, of course, going back. The unloaded lighter leaked much less, and he thought that she would keep afloat as far as the harbour. He passed to Decoud, standing knee-deep alongside, one of the two spades which belonged to the equipment of each lighter for use when ballasting ships. By working with it carefully as soon as there was daylight enough to see, Decoud could loosen a mass of earth and stones overhanging the cavity in which they had deposited the treasure, so that it would look as if it had fallen naturally. It would cover up not only the cavity, but even all traces of their work, the footsteps, the displaced stones, and even the broken bushes. "Besides, who would think of looking either for you or the treasure here?" Nostromo continued, as if he could not tear himself away from the spot. "Nobody is ever likely to come here. What could any man want with this piece of earth as long as there is room for his feet on the mainland! The people in this country are not curious. There are even no fishermen here to intrude upon your worship. All the fishing that is done in the gulf goes on near Zapiga, over there. Senor, if you are forced to leave this island before anything can be arranged for you, do not try to make for Zapiga. It is a settlement of thieves and matreros, where they would cut your throat promptly for the sake of your gold watch and chain. And, senor, think twice before confiding in any one whatever; even in the officers of the Company's steamers, if you ever get on board one. Honesty alone is not enough for security. You must look to discretion and prudence in a man. And always remember, senor, before you open your lips for a confidence, that this treasure may be left safely here for hundreds of years. Time is on its side, senor. And silver is an incorruptible metal that can be trusted to keep its value for ever. . . . An incorruptible metal," he repeated, as if the idea had given him a profound pleasure. "As some men are said to be," Decoud pronounced, inscrutably, while the Capataz, who busied himself in baling out the lighter with a wooden bucket, went on throwing the water over the side with a regular splash. Decoud, incorrigible in his scepticism, reflected, not cynically, but with general satisfaction, that this man was made incorruptible by his enormous vanity, that finest form of egoism which can take on the aspect of every virtue. Nostromo ceased baling, and, as if struck with a sudden thought, dropped the bucket with a clatter into the lighter. "Have you any message?" he asked in a lowered voice. "Remember, I shall be asked questions." "You must find the hopeful words that ought to be spoken to the people in town. I trust for that your intelligence and your experience, Capataz. You understand?" "Si, senor. . . . For the ladies." "Yes, yes," said Decoud, hastily. "Your wonderful reputation will make them attach great value to your words; therefore be careful what you say. I am looking forward," he continued, feeling the fatal touch of contempt for himself to which his complex nature was subject, "I am looking forward to a glorious and successful ending to my mission. Do you hear, Capataz? Use the words glorious and successful when you speak to the senorita. Your own mission is accomplished gloriously and successfully. You have indubitably saved the silver of the mine. Not only this silver, but probably all the silver that shall ever come out of it." Nostromo detected the ironic tone. "I dare say, Senor Don Martin," he said, moodily. "There are very few things that I am not equal to. Ask the foreign signori. I, a man of the people, who cannot always understand what you mean. But as to this lot which I must leave here, let me tell you that I would believe it in greater safety if you had not been with me at all." An exclamation escaped Decoud, and a short pause followed. "Shall I go back with you to Sulaco?" he asked in an angry tone. "Shall I strike you dead with my knife where you stand?" retorted Nostromo, contemptuously. "It would be the same thing as taking you to Sulaco. Come, senor. Your reputation is in your politics, and mine is bound up with the fate of this silver. Do you wonder I wish there had been no other man to share my knowledge? I wanted no one with me, senor." "You could not have kept the lighter afloat without me," Decoud almost shouted. "You would have gone to the bottom with her." "Yes," uttered Nostromo, slowly; "alone." Here was a man, Decoud reflected, that seemed as though he would have preferred to die rather than deface the perfect form of his egoism. Such a man was safe. In silence he helped the Capataz to get the grapnel on board. Nostromo cleared the shelving shore with one push of the heavy oar, and Decoud found himself solitary on the beach like a man in a dream. A sudden desire to hear a human voice once more seized upon his heart. The lighter was hardly distinguishable from the black water upon which she floated. "What do you think has become of Hirsch?" he shouted. "Knocked overboard and drowned," cried Nostromo's voice confidently out of the black wastes of sky and sea around the islet. "Keep close in the ravine, senor. I shall try to come out to you in a night or two." A slight swishing rustle showed that Nostromo was setting the sail. It filled all at once with a sound as of a single loud drum-tap. Decoud went back to the ravine. Nostromo, at the tiller, looked back from time to time at the vanishing mass of the Great Isabel, which, little by little, merged into the uniform texture of the night. At last, when he turned his head again, he saw nothing but a smooth darkness, like a solid wall. Then he, too, experienced that feeling of solitude which had weighed heavily on Decoud after the lighter had slipped off the shore. But while the man on the island was oppressed by a bizarre sense of unreality affecting the very ground upon which he walked, the mind of the Capataz of the Cargadores turned alertly to the problem of future conduct. Nostromo's faculties, working on parallel lines, enabled him to steer straight, to keep a look-out for Hermosa, near which he had to pass, and to try to imagine what would happen tomorrow in Sulaco. To-morrow, or, as a matter of fact, to-day, since the dawn was not very far, Sotillo would find out in what way the treasure had gone. A gang of Cargadores had been employed in loading it into a railway truck from the Custom House store-rooms, and running the truck on to the wharf. There would be arrests made, and certainly before noon Sotillo would know in what manner the silver had left Sulaco, and who it was that took it out. Nostromo's intention had been to sail right into the harbour; but at this thought by a sudden touch of the tiller he threw the lighter into the wind and checked her rapid way. His re-appearance with the very boat would raise suspicions, would cause surmises, would absolutely put Sotillo on the track. He himself would be arrested; and once in the Calabozo there was no saying what they would do to him to make him speak. He trusted himself, but he stood up to look round. Near by, Hermosa showed low its white surface as flat as a table, with the slight run of the sea raised by the breeze washing over its edges noisily. The lighter must be sunk at once. He allowed her to drift with her sail aback. There was already a good deal of water in her. He allowed her to drift towards the harbour entrance, and, letting the tiller swing about, squatted down and busied himself in loosening the plug. With that out she would fill very quickly, and every lighter carried a little iron ballast--enough to make her go down when full of water. When he stood up again the noisy wash about the Hermosa sounded far away, almost inaudible; and already he could make out the shape of land about the harbour entrance. This was a desperate affair, and he was a good swimmer. A mile was nothing to him, and he knew of an easy place for landing just below the earthworks of the old abandoned fort. It occurred to him with a peculiar fascination that this fort was a good place in which to sleep the day through after so many sleepless nights. With one blow of the tiller he unshipped for the purpose, he knocked the plug out, but did not take the trouble to lower the sail. He felt the water welling up heavily about his legs before he leaped on to the taffrail. There, upright and motionless, in his shirt and trousers only, he stood waiting. When he had felt her settle he sprang far away with a mighty splash. At once he turned his head. The gloomy, clouded dawn from behind the mountains showed him on the smooth waters the upper corner of the sail, a dark wet triangle of canvas waving slightly to and fro. He saw it vanish, as if jerked under, and then struck out for the shore. PART THIRD THE LIGHTHOUSE CHAPTER ONE Directly the cargo boat had slipped away from the wharf and got lost in the darkness of the harbour the Europeans of Sulaco separated, to prepare for the coming of the Monterist regime, which was approaching Sulaco from the mountains, as well as from the sea. This bit of manual work in loading the silver was their last concerted action. It ended the three days of danger, during which, according to the newspaper press of Europe, their energy had preserved the town from the calamities of popular disorder. At the shore end of the jetty, Captain Mitchell said good-night and turned back. His intention was to walk the planks of the wharf till the steamer from Esmeralda turned up. The engineers of the railway staff, collecting their Basque and Italian workmen, marched them away to the railway yards, leaving the Custom House, so well defended on the first day of the riot, standing open to the four winds of heaven. Their men had conducted themselves bravely and faithfully during the famous "three days" of Sulaco. In a great part this faithfulness and that courage had been exercised in self-defence rather than in the cause of those material interests to which Charles Gould had pinned his faith. Amongst the cries of the mob not the least loud had been the cry of death to foreigners. It was, indeed, a lucky circumstance for Sulaco that the relations of those imported workmen with the people of the country had been uniformly bad from the first. Doctor Monygham, going to the door of Viola's kitchen, observed this retreat marking the end of the foreign interference, this withdrawal of the army of material progress from the field of Costaguana revolutions. Algarrobe torches carried on the outskirts of the moving body sent their penetrating aroma into his nostrils. Their light, sweeping along the front of the house, made the letters of the inscription, "Albergo d'ltalia Una," leap out black from end to end of the long wall. His eyes blinked in the clear blaze. Several young men, mostly fair and tall, shepherding this mob of dark bronzed heads, surmounted by the glint of slanting rifle barrels, nodded to him familiarly as they went by. The doctor was a well-known character. Some of them wondered what he was doing there. Then, on the flank of their workmen they tramped on, following the line of rails. "Withdrawing your people from the harbour?" said the doctor, addressing himself to the chief engineer of the railway, who had accompanied Charles Gould so far on his way to the town, walking by the side of the horse, with his hand on the saddle-bow. They had stopped just outside the open door to let the workmen cross the road. "As quick as I can. We are not a political faction," answered the engineer, meaningly. "And we are not going to give our new rulers a handle against the railway. You approve me, Gould?" "Absolutely," said Charles Gould's impassive voice, high up and outside the dim parallelogram of light falling on the road through the open door. With Sotillo expected from one side, and Pedro Montero from the other, the engineer-in-chief's only anxiety now was to avoid a collision with either. Sulaco, for him, was a railway station, a terminus, workshops, a great accumulation of stores. As against the mob the railway defended its property, but politically the railway was neutral. He was a brave man; and in that spirit of neutrality he had carried proposals of truce to the self-appointed chiefs of the popular party, the deputies Fuentes and Gamacho. Bullets were still flying about when he had crossed the Plaza on that mission, waving above his head a white napkin belonging to the table linen of the Amarilla Club. He was rather proud of this exploit; and reflecting that the doctor, busy all day with the wounded in the patio of the Casa Gould, had not had time to hear the news, he began a succinct narrative. He had communicated to them the intelligence from the Construction Camp as to Pedro Montero. The brother of the victorious general, he had assured them, could be expected at Sulaco at any time now. This news (as he anticipated), when shouted out of the window by Senor Gamacho, induced a rush of the mob along the Campo Road towards Rincon. The two deputies also, after shaking hands with him effusively, mounted and galloped off to meet the great man. "I have misled them a little as to the time," the chief engineer confessed. "However hard he rides, he can scarcely get here before the morning. But my object is attained. I've secured several hours' peace for the losing party. But I did not tell them anything about Sotillo, for fear they would take it into their heads to try to get hold of the harbour again, either to oppose him or welcome him--there's no saying which. There was Gould's silver, on which rests the remnant of our hopes. Decoud's retreat had to be thought of, too. I think the railway has done pretty well by its friends without compromising itself hopelessly. Now the parties must be left to themselves." "Costaguana for the Costaguaneros," interjected the doctor, sardonically. "It is a fine country, and they have raised a fine crop of hates, vengeance, murder, and rapine--those sons of the country." "Well, I am one of them," Charles Gould's voice sounded, calmly, "and I must be going on to see to my own crop of trouble. My wife has driven straight on, doctor?" "Yes. All was quiet on this side. Mrs. Gould has taken the two girls with her." Charles Gould rode on, and the engineer-in-chief followed the doctor indoors. "That man is calmness personified," he said, appreciatively, dropping on a bench, and stretching his well-shaped legs in cycling stockings nearly across the doorway. "He must be extremely sure of himself." "If that's all he is sure of, then he is sure of nothing," said the doctor. He had perched himself again on the end of the table. He nursed his cheek in the palm of one hand, while the other sustained the elbow. "It is the last thing a man ought to be sure of." The candle, half-consumed and burning dimly with a long wick, lighted up from below his inclined face, whose expression affected by the drawn-in cicatrices in the cheeks, had something vaguely unnatural, an exaggerated remorseful bitterness. As he sat there he had the air of meditating upon sinister things. The engineer-in-chief gazed at him for a time before he protested. "I really don't see that. For me there seems to be nothing else. However----" He was a wise man, but he could not quite conceal his contempt for that sort of paradox; in fact. Dr. Monygham was not liked by the Europeans of Sulaco. His outward aspect of an outcast, which he preserved even in Mrs. Gould's drawing-room, provoked unfavourable criticism. There could be no doubt of his intelligence; and as he had lived for over twenty years in the country, the pessimism of his outlook could not be altogether ignored. But instinctively, in self-defence of their activities and hopes, his hearers put it to the account of some hidden imperfection in the man's character. It was known that many years before, when quite young, he had been made by Guzman Bento chief medical officer of the army. Not one of the Europeans then in the service of Costaguana had been so much liked and trusted by the fierce old Dictator. Afterwards his story was not so clear. It lost itself amongst the innumerable tales of conspiracies and plots against the tyrant as a stream is lost in an arid belt of sandy country before it emerges, diminished and troubled, perhaps, on the other side. The doctor made no secret of it that he had lived for years in the wildest parts of the Republic, wandering with almost unknown Indian tribes in the great forests of the far interior where the great rivers have their sources. But it was mere aimless wandering; he had written nothing, collected nothing, brought nothing for science out of the twilight of the forests, which seemed to cling to his battered personality limping about Sulaco, where it had drifted in casually, only to get stranded on the shores of the sea. It was also known that he had lived in a state of destitution till the arrival of the Goulds from Europe. Don Carlos and Dona Emilia had taken up the mad English doctor, when it became apparent that for all his savage independence he could be tamed by kindness. Perhaps it was only hunger that had tamed him. In years gone by he had certainly been acquainted with Charles Gould's father in Sta. Marta; and now, no matter what were the dark passages of his history, as the medical officer of the San Tome mine he became a recognized personality. He was recognized, but not unreservedly accepted. So much defiant eccentricity and such an outspoken scorn for mankind seemed to point to mere recklessness of judgment, the bravado of guilt. Besides, since he had become again of some account, vague whispers had been heard that years ago, when fallen into disgrace and thrown into prison by Guzman Bento at the time of the so-called Great Conspiracy, he had betrayed some of his best friends amongst the conspirators. Nobody pretended to believe that whisper; the whole story of the Great Conspiracy was hopelessly involved and obscure; it is admitted in Costaguana that there never had been a conspiracy except in the diseased imagination of the Tyrant; and, therefore, nothing and no one to betray; though the most distinguished Costaguaneros had been imprisoned and executed upon that accusation. The procedure had dragged on for years, decimating the better class like a pestilence. The mere expression of sorrow for the fate of executed kinsmen had been punished with death. Don Jose Avellanos was perhaps the only one living who knew the whole story of those unspeakable cruelties. He had suffered from them himself, and he, with a shrug of the shoulders and a nervous, jerky gesture of the arm, was wont to put away from him, as it were, every allusion to it. But whatever the reason, Dr. Monygham, a personage in the administration of the Gould Concession, treated with reverent awe by the miners, and indulged in his peculiarities by Mrs. Gould, remained somehow outside the pale. It was not from any liking for the doctor that the engineer-in-chief had lingered in the inn upon the plain. He liked old Viola much better. He had come to look upon the Albergo d'ltalia Una as a dependence of the railway. Many of his subordinates had their quarters there. Mrs. Gould's interest in the family conferred upon it a sort of distinction. The engineer-in-chief, with an army of workers under his orders, appreciated the moral influence of the old Garibaldino upon his countrymen. His austere, old-world Republicanism had a severe, soldier-like standard of faithfulness and duty, as if the world were a battlefield where men had to fight for the sake of universal love and brotherhood, instead of a more or less large share of booty. "Poor old chap!" he said, after he had heard the doctor's account of Teresa. "He'll never be able to keep the place going by himself. I shall be sorry." "He's quite alone up there," grunted Doctor Monygham, with a toss of his heavy head towards the narrow staircase. "Every living soul has cleared out, and Mrs. Gould took the girls away just now. It might not be over-safe for them out here before very long. Of course, as a doctor I can do nothing more here; but she has asked me to stay with old Viola, and as I have no horse to get back to the mine, where I ought to be, I made no difficulty to stay. They can do without me in the town." "I have a good mind to remain with you, doctor, till we see whether anything happens to-night at the harbour," declared the engineer-in-chief. "He must not be molested by Sotillo's soldiery, who may push on as far as this at once. Sotillo used to be very cordial to me at the Goulds' and at the club. How that man'll ever dare to look any of his friends here in the face

accustomed

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

was completely wet), disclosed to the toiling Decoud the eagerness of his face, bent low over the box of the compass, and the attentive stare of his eyes. He knew now where he was, and he hoped to run the sinking lighter ashore in the shallow cove where the high, cliff-like end of the Great Isabel is divided in two equal parts by a deep and overgrown ravine. Decoud pumped without intermission. Nostromo steered without relaxing for a second the intense, peering effort of his stare. Each of them was as if utterly alone with his task. It did not occur to them to speak. There was nothing in common between them but the knowledge that the damaged lighter must be slowly but surely sinking. In that knowledge, which was like the crucial test of their desires, they seemed to have become completely estranged, as if they had discovered in the very shock of the collision that the loss of the lighter would not mean the same thing to them both. This common danger brought their differences in aim, in view, in character, and in position, into absolute prominence in the private vision of each. There was no bond of conviction, of common idea; they were merely two adventurers pursuing each his own adventure, involved in the same imminence of deadly peril. Therefore they had nothing to say to each other. But this peril, this only incontrovertible truth in which they shared, seemed to act as an inspiration to their mental and bodily powers. There was certainly something almost miraculous in the way the Capataz made the cove with nothing but the shadowy hint of the island's shape and the vague gleam of a small sandy strip for a guide. Where the ravine opens between the cliffs, and a slender, shallow rivulet meanders out of the bushes to lose itself in the sea, the lighter was run ashore; and the two men, with a taciturn, undaunted energy, began to discharge her precious freight, carrying each ox-hide box up the bed of the rivulet beyond the bushes to a hollow place which the caving in of the soil had made below the roots of a large tree. Its big smooth trunk leaned like a falling column far over the trickle of water running amongst the loose stones. A couple of years before Nostromo had spent a whole Sunday, all alone, exploring the island. He explained this to Decoud after their task was done, and they sat, weary in every limb, with their legs hanging down the low bank, and their backs against the tree, like a pair of blind men aware of each other and their surroundings by some indefinable sixth sense. "Yes," Nostromo repeated, "I never forget a place I have carefully looked at once." He spoke slowly, almost lazily, as if there had been a whole leisurely life before him, instead of the scanty two hours before daylight. The existence of the treasure, barely concealed in this improbable spot, laid a burden of secrecy upon every contemplated step, upon every intention and plan of future conduct. He felt the partial failure of this desperate affair entrusted to the great reputation he had known how to make for himself. However, it was also a partial success. His vanity was half appeased. His nervous irritation had subsided. "You never know what may be of use," he pursued with his usual quietness of tone and manner. "I spent a whole miserable Sunday in exploring this crumb of land." "A misanthropic sort of occupation," muttered Decoud, viciously. "You had no money, I suppose, to gamble with, and to fling about amongst the girls in your usual haunts, Capataz." "_E vero!_" exclaimed the Capataz, surprised into the use of his native tongue by so much perspicacity. "I had not! Therefore I did not want to go amongst those beggarly people accustomed to my generosity. It is looked for from the Capataz of the Cargadores, who are the rich men, and, as it were, the Caballeros amongst the common people. I don't care for cards but as a pastime; and as to those girls that boast of having opened their doors to my knock, you know I wouldn't look at any one of them twice except for what the people would say. They are queer, the good people of Sulaco, and I have got much useful information simply by listening patiently to the talk of the women that everybody believed I was in love with. Poor Teresa could never understand that. On that particular Sunday, senor, she scolded so that I went out of the house swearing that I would never darken their door again unless to fetch away my hammock and my chest of clothes. Senor, there is nothing more exasperating than to hear a woman you respect rail against your good reputation when you have not a single brass coin in your pocket. I untied one of the small boats and pulled myself out of the harbour with nothing but three cigars in my pocket to help me spend the day on this island. But the water of this rivulet you hear under your feet is cool and sweet and good, senor, both before and after a smoke." He was silent for a while, then added reflectively, "That was the first Sunday after I brought down the white-whiskered English rico all the way down the mountains from the Paramo on the top of the Entrada Pass--and in the coach, too! No coach had gone up or down that mountain road within the memory of man, senor, till I brought this one down in charge of fifty peons working like one man with ropes, pickaxes, and poles under my direction. That was the rich Englishman who, as people say, pays for the making of this railway. He was very pleased with me. But my wages were not due till the end of the month." He slid down the bank suddenly. Decoud heard the splash of his feet in the brook and followed his footsteps down the ravine. His form was lost among the bushes till he had reached the strip of sand under the cliff. As often happens in the gulf when the showers during the first part of the night had been frequent and heavy, the darkness had thinned considerably towards the morning though there were no signs of daylight as yet. The cargo-lighter, relieved of its precious burden, rocked feebly, half-afloat, with her fore-foot on the sand. A long rope stretched away like a black cotton thread across the strip of white beach to the grapnel Nostromo had carried ashore and hooked to the stem of a tree-like shrub in the very opening of the ravine. There was nothing for Decoud but to remain on the island. He received from Nostromo's hands whatever food the foresight of Captain Mitchell had put on board the lighter and deposited it temporarily in the little dinghy which on their arrival they had hauled up out of sight amongst the bushes. It was to be left with him. The island was to be a hiding-place, not a prison; he could pull out to a passing ship. The O.S.N. Company's mail boats passed close to the islands when going into Sulaco from the north. But the Minerva, carrying off the ex-president, had taken the news up north of the disturbances in Sulaco. It was possible that the next steamer down would get instructions to miss the port altogether since the town, as far as the Minerva's officers knew, was for the time being in the hands of the rabble. This would mean that there would be no steamer for a month, as far as the mail service went; but Decoud had to take his chance of that. The island was his only shelter from the proscription hanging over his head. The Capataz was, of course, going back. The unloaded lighter leaked much less, and he thought that she would keep afloat as far as the harbour. He passed to Decoud, standing knee-deep alongside, one of the two spades which belonged to the equipment of each lighter for use when ballasting ships. By working with it carefully as soon as there was daylight enough to see, Decoud could loosen a mass of earth and stones overhanging the cavity in which they had deposited the treasure, so that it would look as if it had fallen naturally. It would cover up not only the cavity, but even all traces of their work, the footsteps, the displaced stones, and even the broken bushes. "Besides, who would think of looking either for you or the treasure here?" Nostromo continued, as if he could not tear himself away from the spot. "Nobody is ever likely to come here. What could any man want with this piece of earth as long as there is room for his feet on the mainland! The people in this country are not curious. There are even no fishermen here to intrude upon your worship. All the fishing that is done in the gulf goes on near Zapiga, over there. Senor, if you are forced to leave this island before anything can be arranged for you, do not try to make for Zapiga. It is a settlement of thieves and matreros, where they would cut your throat promptly for the sake of your gold watch and chain. And, senor, think twice before confiding in any one whatever; even in the officers of the Company's steamers, if you ever get on board one. Honesty alone is not enough for security. You must look to discretion and prudence in a man. And always remember, senor, before you open your lips for a confidence, that this treasure may be left safely here for hundreds of years. Time is on its side, senor. And silver is an incorruptible metal that can be trusted to keep its value for ever. . . . An incorruptible metal," he repeated, as if the idea had given him a profound pleasure. "As some men are said to be," Decoud pronounced, inscrutably, while the Capataz, who busied himself in baling out the lighter with a wooden bucket, went on throwing the water over the side with a regular splash. Decoud, incorrigible in his scepticism, reflected, not cynically, but with general satisfaction, that this man was made incorruptible by his enormous vanity, that finest form of egoism which can take on the aspect of every virtue. Nostromo ceased baling, and, as if struck with a sudden thought, dropped the bucket with a clatter into the lighter. "Have you any message?" he asked in a lowered voice. "Remember, I shall be asked questions." "You must find the hopeful words that ought to be spoken to the people in town. I trust for that your intelligence and your experience, Capataz. You understand?" "Si, senor. . . . For the ladies." "Yes, yes," said Decoud, hastily. "Your wonderful reputation will make them attach great value to your words; therefore be careful what you say. I am looking forward," he continued, feeling the fatal touch of contempt for himself to which his complex nature was subject, "I am looking forward to a glorious and successful ending to my mission. Do you hear, Capataz? Use the words glorious and successful when you speak to the senorita. Your own mission is accomplished gloriously and successfully. You have indubitably saved the silver of the mine. Not only this silver, but probably all the silver that shall ever come out of it." Nostromo detected the ironic tone. "I dare say, Senor Don Martin," he said, moodily. "There are very few things that I am not equal to. Ask the foreign signori. I, a man of the people, who cannot always understand what you mean. But as to this lot which I must leave here, let me tell you that I would believe it in greater safety if you had not been with me at all." An exclamation escaped Decoud, and a short pause followed. "Shall I go back with you to Sulaco?" he asked in an angry tone. "Shall I strike you dead with my knife where you stand?" retorted Nostromo, contemptuously. "It would be the same thing as taking you to Sulaco. Come, senor. Your reputation is in your politics, and mine is bound up with the fate of this silver. Do you wonder I wish there had been no other man to share my knowledge? I wanted no one with me, senor." "You could not have kept the lighter afloat without me," Decoud almost shouted. "You would have gone to the bottom with her." "Yes," uttered Nostromo, slowly; "alone." Here was a man, Decoud reflected, that seemed as though he would have preferred to die rather than deface the perfect form of his egoism. Such a man was safe. In silence he helped the Capataz to get the grapnel on board. Nostromo cleared the shelving shore with one push of the heavy oar, and Decoud found himself solitary on the beach like a man in a dream. A sudden desire to hear a human voice once more seized upon his heart. The lighter was hardly distinguishable from the black water upon which she floated. "What do you think has become of Hirsch?" he shouted. "Knocked overboard and drowned," cried Nostromo's voice confidently out of the black wastes of sky and sea around the islet. "Keep close in the ravine, senor. I shall try to come out to you in a night or two." A slight swishing rustle showed that Nostromo was setting the sail. It filled all at once with a sound as of a single loud drum-tap. Decoud went back to the ravine. Nostromo, at the tiller, looked back from time to time at the vanishing mass of the Great Isabel, which, little by little, merged into the uniform texture of the night. At last, when he turned his head again, he saw nothing but a smooth darkness, like a solid wall. Then he, too, experienced that feeling of solitude which had weighed heavily on Decoud after the lighter had slipped off the shore. But while the man on the island was oppressed by a bizarre sense of unreality affecting the very ground upon which he walked, the mind of the Capataz of the Cargadores turned alertly to the problem of future conduct. Nostromo's faculties, working on parallel lines, enabled him to steer straight, to keep a look-out for Hermosa, near which he had to pass, and to try to imagine what would happen tomorrow in Sulaco. To-morrow, or, as a matter of fact, to-day, since the dawn was not very far, Sotillo would find out in what way the treasure had gone. A gang of Cargadores had been employed in loading it into a railway truck from the Custom House store-rooms, and running the truck on to the wharf. There would be arrests made, and certainly before noon Sotillo would know in what manner the silver had left Sulaco, and who it was that took it out. Nostromo's intention had been to sail right into the harbour; but at this thought by a sudden touch of the tiller he threw the lighter into the wind and checked her rapid way. His re-appearance with the very boat would raise suspicions, would cause surmises, would absolutely put Sotillo on the track. He himself would be arrested; and once in the Calabozo there was no saying what they would do to him to make him speak. He trusted himself, but he stood up to look round. Near by, Hermosa showed low its white surface as flat as a table, with the slight run of the sea raised by the breeze washing over its edges noisily. The lighter must be sunk at once. He allowed her to drift with her sail aback. There was already a good deal of water in her. He allowed her to drift towards the harbour entrance, and, letting the tiller swing about, squatted down and busied himself in loosening the plug. With that out she would fill very quickly, and every lighter carried a little iron ballast--enough to make her go down when full of water. When he stood up again the noisy wash about the Hermosa sounded far away, almost inaudible; and already he could make out the shape of land about the harbour entrance. This was a desperate affair, and he was a good swimmer. A mile was nothing to him, and he knew of an easy place for landing just below the earthworks of the old abandoned fort. It occurred to him with a peculiar fascination that this fort was a good place in which to sleep the day through after so many sleepless nights. With one blow of the tiller he unshipped for the purpose, he knocked the plug out, but did not take the trouble to lower the sail. He felt the water welling up heavily about his legs before he leaped on to the taffrail. There, upright and motionless, in his shirt and trousers only, he stood waiting. When he had felt her settle he sprang far away with a mighty splash. At once he turned his head. The gloomy, clouded dawn from behind the mountains showed him on the smooth waters the upper corner of the sail, a dark wet triangle of canvas waving slightly to and fro. He saw it vanish, as if jerked under, and then struck out for the shore. PART THIRD THE LIGHTHOUSE CHAPTER ONE Directly the cargo boat had slipped away from the wharf and got lost in the darkness of the harbour the Europeans of Sulaco separated, to prepare for the coming of the Monterist regime, which was approaching Sulaco from the mountains, as well as from the sea. This bit of manual work in loading the silver was their last concerted action. It ended the three days of danger, during which, according to the newspaper press of Europe, their energy had preserved the town from the calamities of popular disorder. At the shore end of the jetty, Captain Mitchell said good-night and turned back. His intention was to walk the planks of the wharf till the steamer from Esmeralda turned up. The engineers of the railway staff, collecting their Basque and Italian workmen, marched them away to the railway yards, leaving the Custom House, so well defended on the first day of the riot, standing open to the four winds of heaven. Their men had conducted themselves bravely and faithfully during the famous "three days" of Sulaco. In a great part this faithfulness and that courage had been exercised in self-defence rather than in the cause of those material interests to which Charles Gould had pinned his faith. Amongst the cries of the mob not the least loud had been the cry of death to foreigners. It was, indeed, a lucky circumstance for Sulaco that the relations of those imported workmen with the people of the country had been uniformly bad from the first. Doctor Monygham, going to the door of Viola's kitchen, observed this retreat marking the end of the foreign interference, this withdrawal of the army of material progress from the field of Costaguana revolutions. Algarrobe torches carried on the outskirts of the moving body sent their penetrating aroma into his nostrils. Their light, sweeping along the front of the house, made the letters of the inscription, "Albergo d'ltalia Una," leap out black from end to end of the long wall. His eyes blinked in the clear blaze. Several young men, mostly fair and tall, shepherding this mob of dark bronzed heads, surmounted by the glint of slanting rifle barrels, nodded to him familiarly as they went by. The doctor was a well-known character. Some of them wondered what he was doing there. Then, on the flank of their workmen they tramped on, following the line of rails. "Withdrawing your people from the harbour?" said the doctor, addressing himself to the chief engineer of the railway, who had accompanied Charles Gould so far on his way to the town, walking by the side of the horse, with his hand on the saddle-bow. They had stopped just outside the open door to let the workmen cross the road. "As quick as I can. We are not a political faction," answered the engineer, meaningly. "And we are not going to give our new rulers a handle against the railway. You approve me, Gould?" "Absolutely," said Charles Gould's impassive voice, high up and outside the dim parallelogram of light falling on the road through the open door. With Sotillo expected from one side, and Pedro Montero from the other, the engineer-in-chief's only anxiety now was to avoid a collision with either. Sulaco, for him, was a railway station, a terminus, workshops, a great accumulation of stores. As against the mob the railway defended its property, but politically the railway was neutral. He was a brave man; and in that spirit of neutrality he had carried proposals of truce to the self-appointed chiefs of the popular party, the deputies Fuentes and Gamacho. Bullets were still flying about when he had crossed the Plaza on that mission, waving above his head a white napkin belonging to the table linen of the Amarilla Club. He was rather proud of this exploit; and reflecting that the doctor, busy all day with the wounded in the patio of the Casa Gould, had not had time to hear the news, he began a succinct narrative. He had communicated to them the intelligence from the Construction Camp as to Pedro Montero. The brother of the victorious general, he had assured them, could be expected at Sulaco at any time now. This news (as he anticipated), when shouted out of the window by Senor Gamacho, induced a rush of the mob along the Campo Road towards Rincon. The two deputies also, after shaking hands with him effusively, mounted and galloped off to meet the great man. "I have misled them a little as to the time," the chief engineer confessed. "However hard he rides, he can scarcely get here before the morning. But my object is attained. I've secured several hours' peace for the losing party. But I did not tell them anything about Sotillo, for fear they would take it into their heads to try to get hold of the harbour again, either to oppose him or welcome him--there's no saying which. There was Gould's silver, on which rests the remnant of our hopes. Decoud's retreat had to be thought of, too. I think the railway has done pretty well by its friends without compromising itself hopelessly. Now the parties must be left to themselves." "Costaguana for the Costaguaneros," interjected the doctor, sardonically. "It is a fine country, and they have raised a fine crop of hates, vengeance, murder, and rapine--those sons of the country." "Well, I am one of them," Charles Gould's voice sounded, calmly, "and I must be going on to see to my own crop of trouble. My wife has driven straight on, doctor?" "Yes. All was quiet on this side. Mrs. Gould has taken the two girls with her." Charles Gould rode on, and the engineer-in-chief followed the doctor indoors. "That man is calmness personified," he said, appreciatively, dropping on a bench, and stretching his well-shaped legs in cycling stockings nearly across the doorway. "He must be extremely sure of himself." "If that's all he is sure of, then he is sure of nothing," said the doctor. He had perched himself again on the end of the table. He nursed his cheek in the palm of one hand, while the other sustained the elbow. "It is the last thing a man ought to be sure of." The candle, half-consumed and burning dimly with a long wick, lighted up from below his inclined face, whose expression affected by the drawn-in cicatrices in the cheeks, had something vaguely unnatural, an exaggerated remorseful bitterness. As he sat there he had the air of meditating upon sinister things. The engineer-in-chief gazed at him for a time before he protested. "I really don't see that. For me there seems to be nothing else. However----" He was a wise man, but he could not quite conceal his contempt for that sort of paradox; in fact. Dr. Monygham was not liked by the Europeans of Sulaco. His outward aspect of an outcast, which he preserved even in Mrs. Gould's drawing-room, provoked unfavourable criticism. There could be no doubt of his intelligence; and as he had lived for over twenty years in the country, the pessimism of his outlook could not be altogether ignored. But instinctively, in self-defence of their activities and hopes, his hearers put it to the account of some hidden imperfection in the man's character. It was known that many years before, when quite young, he had been made by Guzman Bento chief medical officer of the army. Not one of the Europeans then in the service of Costaguana had been so much liked and trusted by the fierce old Dictator. Afterwards his story was not so clear. It lost itself amongst the innumerable tales of conspiracies and plots against the tyrant as a stream is lost in an arid belt of sandy country before it emerges, diminished and troubled, perhaps, on the other side. The doctor made no secret of it that he had lived for years in the wildest parts of the Republic, wandering with almost unknown Indian tribes in the great forests of the far interior where the great rivers have their sources. But it was mere aimless wandering; he had written nothing, collected nothing, brought nothing for science out of the twilight of the forests, which seemed to cling to his battered personality limping about Sulaco, where it had drifted in casually, only to get stranded on the shores of the sea. It was also known that he had lived in a state of destitution till the arrival of the Goulds from Europe. Don Carlos and Dona Emilia had taken up the mad English doctor, when it became apparent that for all his savage independence he could be tamed by kindness. Perhaps it was only hunger that had tamed him. In years gone by he had certainly been acquainted with Charles Gould's father in Sta. Marta; and now, no matter what were the dark passages of his history, as the medical officer of the San Tome mine he became a recognized personality. He was recognized, but not unreservedly accepted. So much defiant eccentricity and such an outspoken scorn for mankind seemed to point to mere recklessness of judgment, the bravado of guilt. Besides, since he had become again of some account, vague whispers had been heard that years ago, when fallen into disgrace and thrown into prison by Guzman Bento at the time of the so-called Great Conspiracy, he had betrayed some of his best friends amongst the conspirators. Nobody pretended to believe that whisper; the whole story of the Great Conspiracy was hopelessly involved and obscure; it is admitted in Costaguana that there never had been a conspiracy except in the diseased imagination of the Tyrant; and, therefore, nothing and no one to betray; though the most distinguished Costaguaneros had been imprisoned and executed upon that accusation. The procedure had dragged on for years, decimating the better class like a pestilence. The mere expression of sorrow for the fate of executed kinsmen had been punished with death. Don Jose Avellanos was perhaps the only one living who knew the whole story of those unspeakable cruelties. He had suffered from them himself, and he, with a shrug of the shoulders and a nervous, jerky gesture of the arm, was wont to put away from him, as it were, every allusion to it. But whatever the reason, Dr. Monygham, a personage in the administration of the Gould Concession, treated with reverent awe by the miners, and indulged in his peculiarities by Mrs. Gould, remained somehow outside the pale. It was not from any liking for the doctor that the engineer-in-chief had lingered in the inn upon the plain. He liked old Viola much better. He had come to look upon the Albergo d'ltalia Una as a dependence of the railway. Many of his subordinates had their quarters there. Mrs. Gould's interest in the family conferred upon it a sort of distinction. The engineer-in-chief, with an army of workers under his orders, appreciated the moral influence of the old Garibaldino upon his countrymen. His austere, old-world Republicanism had a severe, soldier-like standard of faithfulness and duty, as if the world were a battlefield where men had to fight for the sake of universal love and brotherhood, instead of a more or less large share of booty. "Poor old chap!" he said, after he had heard the doctor's account of Teresa. "He'll never be able to keep the place going by himself. I shall be sorry." "He's quite alone up there," grunted Doctor Monygham, with a toss of his heavy head towards the narrow staircase. "Every living soul has cleared out, and Mrs. Gould took the girls away just now. It might not be over-safe for them out here before very long. Of course, as a doctor I can do nothing more here; but she has asked me to stay with old Viola, and as I have no horse to get back to the mine, where I ought to be, I made no difficulty to stay. They can do without me in the town." "I have a good mind to remain with you, doctor, till we see whether anything happens to-night at the harbour," declared the engineer-in-chief. "He must not be molested by Sotillo's soldiery, who may push on as far as this at once. Sotillo used to be very cordial to me at the Goulds' and at the club. How that man'll ever dare to look any of his friends here in the face

settle

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

was completely wet), disclosed to the toiling Decoud the eagerness of his face, bent low over the box of the compass, and the attentive stare of his eyes. He knew now where he was, and he hoped to run the sinking lighter ashore in the shallow cove where the high, cliff-like end of the Great Isabel is divided in two equal parts by a deep and overgrown ravine. Decoud pumped without intermission. Nostromo steered without relaxing for a second the intense, peering effort of his stare. Each of them was as if utterly alone with his task. It did not occur to them to speak. There was nothing in common between them but the knowledge that the damaged lighter must be slowly but surely sinking. In that knowledge, which was like the crucial test of their desires, they seemed to have become completely estranged, as if they had discovered in the very shock of the collision that the loss of the lighter would not mean the same thing to them both. This common danger brought their differences in aim, in view, in character, and in position, into absolute prominence in the private vision of each. There was no bond of conviction, of common idea; they were merely two adventurers pursuing each his own adventure, involved in the same imminence of deadly peril. Therefore they had nothing to say to each other. But this peril, this only incontrovertible truth in which they shared, seemed to act as an inspiration to their mental and bodily powers. There was certainly something almost miraculous in the way the Capataz made the cove with nothing but the shadowy hint of the island's shape and the vague gleam of a small sandy strip for a guide. Where the ravine opens between the cliffs, and a slender, shallow rivulet meanders out of the bushes to lose itself in the sea, the lighter was run ashore; and the two men, with a taciturn, undaunted energy, began to discharge her precious freight, carrying each ox-hide box up the bed of the rivulet beyond the bushes to a hollow place which the caving in of the soil had made below the roots of a large tree. Its big smooth trunk leaned like a falling column far over the trickle of water running amongst the loose stones. A couple of years before Nostromo had spent a whole Sunday, all alone, exploring the island. He explained this to Decoud after their task was done, and they sat, weary in every limb, with their legs hanging down the low bank, and their backs against the tree, like a pair of blind men aware of each other and their surroundings by some indefinable sixth sense. "Yes," Nostromo repeated, "I never forget a place I have carefully looked at once." He spoke slowly, almost lazily, as if there had been a whole leisurely life before him, instead of the scanty two hours before daylight. The existence of the treasure, barely concealed in this improbable spot, laid a burden of secrecy upon every contemplated step, upon every intention and plan of future conduct. He felt the partial failure of this desperate affair entrusted to the great reputation he had known how to make for himself. However, it was also a partial success. His vanity was half appeased. His nervous irritation had subsided. "You never know what may be of use," he pursued with his usual quietness of tone and manner. "I spent a whole miserable Sunday in exploring this crumb of land." "A misanthropic sort of occupation," muttered Decoud, viciously. "You had no money, I suppose, to gamble with, and to fling about amongst the girls in your usual haunts, Capataz." "_E vero!_" exclaimed the Capataz, surprised into the use of his native tongue by so much perspicacity. "I had not! Therefore I did not want to go amongst those beggarly people accustomed to my generosity. It is looked for from the Capataz of the Cargadores, who are the rich men, and, as it were, the Caballeros amongst the common people. I don't care for cards but as a pastime; and as to those girls that boast of having opened their doors to my knock, you know I wouldn't look at any one of them twice except for what the people would say. They are queer, the good people of Sulaco, and I have got much useful information simply by listening patiently to the talk of the women that everybody believed I was in love with. Poor Teresa could never understand that. On that particular Sunday, senor, she scolded so that I went out of the house swearing that I would never darken their door again unless to fetch away my hammock and my chest of clothes. Senor, there is nothing more exasperating than to hear a woman you respect rail against your good reputation when you have not a single brass coin in your pocket. I untied one of the small boats and pulled myself out of the harbour with nothing but three cigars in my pocket to help me spend the day on this island. But the water of this rivulet you hear under your feet is cool and sweet and good, senor, both before and after a smoke." He was silent for a while, then added reflectively, "That was the first Sunday after I brought down the white-whiskered English rico all the way down the mountains from the Paramo on the top of the Entrada Pass--and in the coach, too! No coach had gone up or down that mountain road within the memory of man, senor, till I brought this one down in charge of fifty peons working like one man with ropes, pickaxes, and poles under my direction. That was the rich Englishman who, as people say, pays for the making of this railway. He was very pleased with me. But my wages were not due till the end of the month." He slid down the bank suddenly. Decoud heard the splash of his feet in the brook and followed his footsteps down the ravine. His form was lost among the bushes till he had reached the strip of sand under the cliff. As often happens in the gulf when the showers during the first part of the night had been frequent and heavy, the darkness had thinned considerably towards the morning though there were no signs of daylight as yet. The cargo-lighter, relieved of its precious burden, rocked feebly, half-afloat, with her fore-foot on the sand. A long rope stretched away like a black cotton thread across the strip of white beach to the grapnel Nostromo had carried ashore and hooked to the stem of a tree-like shrub in the very opening of the ravine. There was nothing for Decoud but to remain on the island. He received from Nostromo's hands whatever food the foresight of Captain Mitchell had put on board the lighter and deposited it temporarily in the little dinghy which on their arrival they had hauled up out of sight amongst the bushes. It was to be left with him. The island was to be a hiding-place, not a prison; he could pull out to a passing ship. The O.S.N. Company's mail boats passed close to the islands when going into Sulaco from the north. But the Minerva, carrying off the ex-president, had taken the news up north of the disturbances in Sulaco. It was possible that the next steamer down would get instructions to miss the port altogether since the town, as far as the Minerva's officers knew, was for the time being in the hands of the rabble. This would mean that there would be no steamer for a month, as far as the mail service went; but Decoud had to take his chance of that. The island was his only shelter from the proscription hanging over his head. The Capataz was, of course, going back. The unloaded lighter leaked much less, and he thought that she would keep afloat as far as the harbour. He passed to Decoud, standing knee-deep alongside, one of the two spades which belonged to the equipment of each lighter for use when ballasting ships. By working with it carefully as soon as there was daylight enough to see, Decoud could loosen a mass of earth and stones overhanging the cavity in which they had deposited the treasure, so that it would look as if it had fallen naturally. It would cover up not only the cavity, but even all traces of their work, the footsteps, the displaced stones, and even the broken bushes. "Besides, who would think of looking either for you or the treasure here?" Nostromo continued, as if he could not tear himself away from the spot. "Nobody is ever likely to come here. What could any man want with this piece of earth as long as there is room for his feet on the mainland! The people in this country are not curious. There are even no fishermen here to intrude upon your worship. All the fishing that is done in the gulf goes on near Zapiga, over there. Senor, if you are forced to leave this island before anything can be arranged for you, do not try to make for Zapiga. It is a settlement of thieves and matreros, where they would cut your throat promptly for the sake of your gold watch and chain. And, senor, think twice before confiding in any one whatever; even in the officers of the Company's steamers, if you ever get on board one. Honesty alone is not enough for security. You must look to discretion and prudence in a man. And always remember, senor, before you open your lips for a confidence, that this treasure may be left safely here for hundreds of years. Time is on its side, senor. And silver is an incorruptible metal that can be trusted to keep its value for ever. . . . An incorruptible metal," he repeated, as if the idea had given him a profound pleasure. "As some men are said to be," Decoud pronounced, inscrutably, while the Capataz, who busied himself in baling out the lighter with a wooden bucket, went on throwing the water over the side with a regular splash. Decoud, incorrigible in his scepticism, reflected, not cynically, but with general satisfaction, that this man was made incorruptible by his enormous vanity, that finest form of egoism which can take on the aspect of every virtue. Nostromo ceased baling, and, as if struck with a sudden thought, dropped the bucket with a clatter into the lighter. "Have you any message?" he asked in a lowered voice. "Remember, I shall be asked questions." "You must find the hopeful words that ought to be spoken to the people in town. I trust for that your intelligence and your experience, Capataz. You understand?" "Si, senor. . . . For the ladies." "Yes, yes," said Decoud, hastily. "Your wonderful reputation will make them attach great value to your words; therefore be careful what you say. I am looking forward," he continued, feeling the fatal touch of contempt for himself to which his complex nature was subject, "I am looking forward to a glorious and successful ending to my mission. Do you hear, Capataz? Use the words glorious and successful when you speak to the senorita. Your own mission is accomplished gloriously and successfully. You have indubitably saved the silver of the mine. Not only this silver, but probably all the silver that shall ever come out of it." Nostromo detected the ironic tone. "I dare say, Senor Don Martin," he said, moodily. "There are very few things that I am not equal to. Ask the foreign signori. I, a man of the people, who cannot always understand what you mean. But as to this lot which I must leave here, let me tell you that I would believe it in greater safety if you had not been with me at all." An exclamation escaped Decoud, and a short pause followed. "Shall I go back with you to Sulaco?" he asked in an angry tone. "Shall I strike you dead with my knife where you stand?" retorted Nostromo, contemptuously. "It would be the same thing as taking you to Sulaco. Come, senor. Your reputation is in your politics, and mine is bound up with the fate of this silver. Do you wonder I wish there had been no other man to share my knowledge? I wanted no one with me, senor." "You could not have kept the lighter afloat without me," Decoud almost shouted. "You would have gone to the bottom with her." "Yes," uttered Nostromo, slowly; "alone." Here was a man, Decoud reflected, that seemed as though he would have preferred to die rather than deface the perfect form of his egoism. Such a man was safe. In silence he helped the Capataz to get the grapnel on board. Nostromo cleared the shelving shore with one push of the heavy oar, and Decoud found himself solitary on the beach like a man in a dream. A sudden desire to hear a human voice once more seized upon his heart. The lighter was hardly distinguishable from the black water upon which she floated. "What do you think has become of Hirsch?" he shouted. "Knocked overboard and drowned," cried Nostromo's voice confidently out of the black wastes of sky and sea around the islet. "Keep close in the ravine, senor. I shall try to come out to you in a night or two." A slight swishing rustle showed that Nostromo was setting the sail. It filled all at once with a sound as of a single loud drum-tap. Decoud went back to the ravine. Nostromo, at the tiller, looked back from time to time at the vanishing mass of the Great Isabel, which, little by little, merged into the uniform texture of the night. At last, when he turned his head again, he saw nothing but a smooth darkness, like a solid wall. Then he, too, experienced that feeling of solitude which had weighed heavily on Decoud after the lighter had slipped off the shore. But while the man on the island was oppressed by a bizarre sense of unreality affecting the very ground upon which he walked, the mind of the Capataz of the Cargadores turned alertly to the problem of future conduct. Nostromo's faculties, working on parallel lines, enabled him to steer straight, to keep a look-out for Hermosa, near which he had to pass, and to try to imagine what would happen tomorrow in Sulaco. To-morrow, or, as a matter of fact, to-day, since the dawn was not very far, Sotillo would find out in what way the treasure had gone. A gang of Cargadores had been employed in loading it into a railway truck from the Custom House store-rooms, and running the truck on to the wharf. There would be arrests made, and certainly before noon Sotillo would know in what manner the silver had left Sulaco, and who it was that took it out. Nostromo's intention had been to sail right into the harbour; but at this thought by a sudden touch of the tiller he threw the lighter into the wind and checked her rapid way. His re-appearance with the very boat would raise suspicions, would cause surmises, would absolutely put Sotillo on the track. He himself would be arrested; and once in the Calabozo there was no saying what they would do to him to make him speak. He trusted himself, but he stood up to look round. Near by, Hermosa showed low its white surface as flat as a table, with the slight run of the sea raised by the breeze washing over its edges noisily. The lighter must be sunk at once. He allowed her to drift with her sail aback. There was already a good deal of water in her. He allowed her to drift towards the harbour entrance, and, letting the tiller swing about, squatted down and busied himself in loosening the plug. With that out she would fill very quickly, and every lighter carried a little iron ballast--enough to make her go down when full of water. When he stood up again the noisy wash about the Hermosa sounded far away, almost inaudible; and already he could make out the shape of land about the harbour entrance. This was a desperate affair, and he was a good swimmer. A mile was nothing to him, and he knew of an easy place for landing just below the earthworks of the old abandoned fort. It occurred to him with a peculiar fascination that this fort was a good place in which to sleep the day through after so many sleepless nights. With one blow of the tiller he unshipped for the purpose, he knocked the plug out, but did not take the trouble to lower the sail. He felt the water welling up heavily about his legs before he leaped on to the taffrail. There, upright and motionless, in his shirt and trousers only, he stood waiting. When he had felt her settle he sprang far away with a mighty splash. At once he turned his head. The gloomy, clouded dawn from behind the mountains showed him on the smooth waters the upper corner of the sail, a dark wet triangle of canvas waving slightly to and fro. He saw it vanish, as if jerked under, and then struck out for the shore. PART THIRD THE LIGHTHOUSE CHAPTER ONE Directly the cargo boat had slipped away from the wharf and got lost in the darkness of the harbour the Europeans of Sulaco separated, to prepare for the coming of the Monterist regime, which was approaching Sulaco from the mountains, as well as from the sea. This bit of manual work in loading the silver was their last concerted action. It ended the three days of danger, during which, according to the newspaper press of Europe, their energy had preserved the town from the calamities of popular disorder. At the shore end of the jetty, Captain Mitchell said good-night and turned back. His intention was to walk the planks of the wharf till the steamer from Esmeralda turned up. The engineers of the railway staff, collecting their Basque and Italian workmen, marched them away to the railway yards, leaving the Custom House, so well defended on the first day of the riot, standing open to the four winds of heaven. Their men had conducted themselves bravely and faithfully during the famous "three days" of Sulaco. In a great part this faithfulness and that courage had been exercised in self-defence rather than in the cause of those material interests to which Charles Gould had pinned his faith. Amongst the cries of the mob not the least loud had been the cry of death to foreigners. It was, indeed, a lucky circumstance for Sulaco that the relations of those imported workmen with the people of the country had been uniformly bad from the first. Doctor Monygham, going to the door of Viola's kitchen, observed this retreat marking the end of the foreign interference, this withdrawal of the army of material progress from the field of Costaguana revolutions. Algarrobe torches carried on the outskirts of the moving body sent their penetrating aroma into his nostrils. Their light, sweeping along the front of the house, made the letters of the inscription, "Albergo d'ltalia Una," leap out black from end to end of the long wall. His eyes blinked in the clear blaze. Several young men, mostly fair and tall, shepherding this mob of dark bronzed heads, surmounted by the glint of slanting rifle barrels, nodded to him familiarly as they went by. The doctor was a well-known character. Some of them wondered what he was doing there. Then, on the flank of their workmen they tramped on, following the line of rails. "Withdrawing your people from the harbour?" said the doctor, addressing himself to the chief engineer of the railway, who had accompanied Charles Gould so far on his way to the town, walking by the side of the horse, with his hand on the saddle-bow. They had stopped just outside the open door to let the workmen cross the road. "As quick as I can. We are not a political faction," answered the engineer, meaningly. "And we are not going to give our new rulers a handle against the railway. You approve me, Gould?" "Absolutely," said Charles Gould's impassive voice, high up and outside the dim parallelogram of light falling on the road through the open door. With Sotillo expected from one side, and Pedro Montero from the other, the engineer-in-chief's only anxiety now was to avoid a collision with either. Sulaco, for him, was a railway station, a terminus, workshops, a great accumulation of stores. As against the mob the railway defended its property, but politically the railway was neutral. He was a brave man; and in that spirit of neutrality he had carried proposals of truce to the self-appointed chiefs of the popular party, the deputies Fuentes and Gamacho. Bullets were still flying about when he had crossed the Plaza on that mission, waving above his head a white napkin belonging to the table linen of the Amarilla Club. He was rather proud of this exploit; and reflecting that the doctor, busy all day with the wounded in the patio of the Casa Gould, had not had time to hear the news, he began a succinct narrative. He had communicated to them the intelligence from the Construction Camp as to Pedro Montero. The brother of the victorious general, he had assured them, could be expected at Sulaco at any time now. This news (as he anticipated), when shouted out of the window by Senor Gamacho, induced a rush of the mob along the Campo Road towards Rincon. The two deputies also, after shaking hands with him effusively, mounted and galloped off to meet the great man. "I have misled them a little as to the time," the chief engineer confessed. "However hard he rides, he can scarcely get here before the morning. But my object is attained. I've secured several hours' peace for the losing party. But I did not tell them anything about Sotillo, for fear they would take it into their heads to try to get hold of the harbour again, either to oppose him or welcome him--there's no saying which. There was Gould's silver, on which rests the remnant of our hopes. Decoud's retreat had to be thought of, too. I think the railway has done pretty well by its friends without compromising itself hopelessly. Now the parties must be left to themselves." "Costaguana for the Costaguaneros," interjected the doctor, sardonically. "It is a fine country, and they have raised a fine crop of hates, vengeance, murder, and rapine--those sons of the country." "Well, I am one of them," Charles Gould's voice sounded, calmly, "and I must be going on to see to my own crop of trouble. My wife has driven straight on, doctor?" "Yes. All was quiet on this side. Mrs. Gould has taken the two girls with her." Charles Gould rode on, and the engineer-in-chief followed the doctor indoors. "That man is calmness personified," he said, appreciatively, dropping on a bench, and stretching his well-shaped legs in cycling stockings nearly across the doorway. "He must be extremely sure of himself." "If that's all he is sure of, then he is sure of nothing," said the doctor. He had perched himself again on the end of the table. He nursed his cheek in the palm of one hand, while the other sustained the elbow. "It is the last thing a man ought to be sure of." The candle, half-consumed and burning dimly with a long wick, lighted up from below his inclined face, whose expression affected by the drawn-in cicatrices in the cheeks, had something vaguely unnatural, an exaggerated remorseful bitterness. As he sat there he had the air of meditating upon sinister things. The engineer-in-chief gazed at him for a time before he protested. "I really don't see that. For me there seems to be nothing else. However----" He was a wise man, but he could not quite conceal his contempt for that sort of paradox; in fact. Dr. Monygham was not liked by the Europeans of Sulaco. His outward aspect of an outcast, which he preserved even in Mrs. Gould's drawing-room, provoked unfavourable criticism. There could be no doubt of his intelligence; and as he had lived for over twenty years in the country, the pessimism of his outlook could not be altogether ignored. But instinctively, in self-defence of their activities and hopes, his hearers put it to the account of some hidden imperfection in the man's character. It was known that many years before, when quite young, he had been made by Guzman Bento chief medical officer of the army. Not one of the Europeans then in the service of Costaguana had been so much liked and trusted by the fierce old Dictator. Afterwards his story was not so clear. It lost itself amongst the innumerable tales of conspiracies and plots against the tyrant as a stream is lost in an arid belt of sandy country before it emerges, diminished and troubled, perhaps, on the other side. The doctor made no secret of it that he had lived for years in the wildest parts of the Republic, wandering with almost unknown Indian tribes in the great forests of the far interior where the great rivers have their sources. But it was mere aimless wandering; he had written nothing, collected nothing, brought nothing for science out of the twilight of the forests, which seemed to cling to his battered personality limping about Sulaco, where it had drifted in casually, only to get stranded on the shores of the sea. It was also known that he had lived in a state of destitution till the arrival of the Goulds from Europe. Don Carlos and Dona Emilia had taken up the mad English doctor, when it became apparent that for all his savage independence he could be tamed by kindness. Perhaps it was only hunger that had tamed him. In years gone by he had certainly been acquainted with Charles Gould's father in Sta. Marta; and now, no matter what were the dark passages of his history, as the medical officer of the San Tome mine he became a recognized personality. He was recognized, but not unreservedly accepted. So much defiant eccentricity and such an outspoken scorn for mankind seemed to point to mere recklessness of judgment, the bravado of guilt. Besides, since he had become again of some account, vague whispers had been heard that years ago, when fallen into disgrace and thrown into prison by Guzman Bento at the time of the so-called Great Conspiracy, he had betrayed some of his best friends amongst the conspirators. Nobody pretended to believe that whisper; the whole story of the Great Conspiracy was hopelessly involved and obscure; it is admitted in Costaguana that there never had been a conspiracy except in the diseased imagination of the Tyrant; and, therefore, nothing and no one to betray; though the most distinguished Costaguaneros had been imprisoned and executed upon that accusation. The procedure had dragged on for years, decimating the better class like a pestilence. The mere expression of sorrow for the fate of executed kinsmen had been punished with death. Don Jose Avellanos was perhaps the only one living who knew the whole story of those unspeakable cruelties. He had suffered from them himself, and he, with a shrug of the shoulders and a nervous, jerky gesture of the arm, was wont to put away from him, as it were, every allusion to it. But whatever the reason, Dr. Monygham, a personage in the administration of the Gould Concession, treated with reverent awe by the miners, and indulged in his peculiarities by Mrs. Gould, remained somehow outside the pale. It was not from any liking for the doctor that the engineer-in-chief had lingered in the inn upon the plain. He liked old Viola much better. He had come to look upon the Albergo d'ltalia Una as a dependence of the railway. Many of his subordinates had their quarters there. Mrs. Gould's interest in the family conferred upon it a sort of distinction. The engineer-in-chief, with an army of workers under his orders, appreciated the moral influence of the old Garibaldino upon his countrymen. His austere, old-world Republicanism had a severe, soldier-like standard of faithfulness and duty, as if the world were a battlefield where men had to fight for the sake of universal love and brotherhood, instead of a more or less large share of booty. "Poor old chap!" he said, after he had heard the doctor's account of Teresa. "He'll never be able to keep the place going by himself. I shall be sorry." "He's quite alone up there," grunted Doctor Monygham, with a toss of his heavy head towards the narrow staircase. "Every living soul has cleared out, and Mrs. Gould took the girls away just now. It might not be over-safe for them out here before very long. Of course, as a doctor I can do nothing more here; but she has asked me to stay with old Viola, and as I have no horse to get back to the mine, where I ought to be, I made no difficulty to stay. They can do without me in the town." "I have a good mind to remain with you, doctor, till we see whether anything happens to-night at the harbour," declared the engineer-in-chief. "He must not be molested by Sotillo's soldiery, who may push on as far as this at once. Sotillo used to be very cordial to me at the Goulds' and at the club. How that man'll ever dare to look any of his friends here in the face

diction

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

was completely wet), disclosed to the toiling Decoud the eagerness of his face, bent low over the box of the compass, and the attentive stare of his eyes. He knew now where he was, and he hoped to run the sinking lighter ashore in the shallow cove where the high, cliff-like end of the Great Isabel is divided in two equal parts by a deep and overgrown ravine. Decoud pumped without intermission. Nostromo steered without relaxing for a second the intense, peering effort of his stare. Each of them was as if utterly alone with his task. It did not occur to them to speak. There was nothing in common between them but the knowledge that the damaged lighter must be slowly but surely sinking. In that knowledge, which was like the crucial test of their desires, they seemed to have become completely estranged, as if they had discovered in the very shock of the collision that the loss of the lighter would not mean the same thing to them both. This common danger brought their differences in aim, in view, in character, and in position, into absolute prominence in the private vision of each. There was no bond of conviction, of common idea; they were merely two adventurers pursuing each his own adventure, involved in the same imminence of deadly peril. Therefore they had nothing to say to each other. But this peril, this only incontrovertible truth in which they shared, seemed to act as an inspiration to their mental and bodily powers. There was certainly something almost miraculous in the way the Capataz made the cove with nothing but the shadowy hint of the island's shape and the vague gleam of a small sandy strip for a guide. Where the ravine opens between the cliffs, and a slender, shallow rivulet meanders out of the bushes to lose itself in the sea, the lighter was run ashore; and the two men, with a taciturn, undaunted energy, began to discharge her precious freight, carrying each ox-hide box up the bed of the rivulet beyond the bushes to a hollow place which the caving in of the soil had made below the roots of a large tree. Its big smooth trunk leaned like a falling column far over the trickle of water running amongst the loose stones. A couple of years before Nostromo had spent a whole Sunday, all alone, exploring the island. He explained this to Decoud after their task was done, and they sat, weary in every limb, with their legs hanging down the low bank, and their backs against the tree, like a pair of blind men aware of each other and their surroundings by some indefinable sixth sense. "Yes," Nostromo repeated, "I never forget a place I have carefully looked at once." He spoke slowly, almost lazily, as if there had been a whole leisurely life before him, instead of the scanty two hours before daylight. The existence of the treasure, barely concealed in this improbable spot, laid a burden of secrecy upon every contemplated step, upon every intention and plan of future conduct. He felt the partial failure of this desperate affair entrusted to the great reputation he had known how to make for himself. However, it was also a partial success. His vanity was half appeased. His nervous irritation had subsided. "You never know what may be of use," he pursued with his usual quietness of tone and manner. "I spent a whole miserable Sunday in exploring this crumb of land." "A misanthropic sort of occupation," muttered Decoud, viciously. "You had no money, I suppose, to gamble with, and to fling about amongst the girls in your usual haunts, Capataz." "_E vero!_" exclaimed the Capataz, surprised into the use of his native tongue by so much perspicacity. "I had not! Therefore I did not want to go amongst those beggarly people accustomed to my generosity. It is looked for from the Capataz of the Cargadores, who are the rich men, and, as it were, the Caballeros amongst the common people. I don't care for cards but as a pastime; and as to those girls that boast of having opened their doors to my knock, you know I wouldn't look at any one of them twice except for what the people would say. They are queer, the good people of Sulaco, and I have got much useful information simply by listening patiently to the talk of the women that everybody believed I was in love with. Poor Teresa could never understand that. On that particular Sunday, senor, she scolded so that I went out of the house swearing that I would never darken their door again unless to fetch away my hammock and my chest of clothes. Senor, there is nothing more exasperating than to hear a woman you respect rail against your good reputation when you have not a single brass coin in your pocket. I untied one of the small boats and pulled myself out of the harbour with nothing but three cigars in my pocket to help me spend the day on this island. But the water of this rivulet you hear under your feet is cool and sweet and good, senor, both before and after a smoke." He was silent for a while, then added reflectively, "That was the first Sunday after I brought down the white-whiskered English rico all the way down the mountains from the Paramo on the top of the Entrada Pass--and in the coach, too! No coach had gone up or down that mountain road within the memory of man, senor, till I brought this one down in charge of fifty peons working like one man with ropes, pickaxes, and poles under my direction. That was the rich Englishman who, as people say, pays for the making of this railway. He was very pleased with me. But my wages were not due till the end of the month." He slid down the bank suddenly. Decoud heard the splash of his feet in the brook and followed his footsteps down the ravine. His form was lost among the bushes till he had reached the strip of sand under the cliff. As often happens in the gulf when the showers during the first part of the night had been frequent and heavy, the darkness had thinned considerably towards the morning though there were no signs of daylight as yet. The cargo-lighter, relieved of its precious burden, rocked feebly, half-afloat, with her fore-foot on the sand. A long rope stretched away like a black cotton thread across the strip of white beach to the grapnel Nostromo had carried ashore and hooked to the stem of a tree-like shrub in the very opening of the ravine. There was nothing for Decoud but to remain on the island. He received from Nostromo's hands whatever food the foresight of Captain Mitchell had put on board the lighter and deposited it temporarily in the little dinghy which on their arrival they had hauled up out of sight amongst the bushes. It was to be left with him. The island was to be a hiding-place, not a prison; he could pull out to a passing ship. The O.S.N. Company's mail boats passed close to the islands when going into Sulaco from the north. But the Minerva, carrying off the ex-president, had taken the news up north of the disturbances in Sulaco. It was possible that the next steamer down would get instructions to miss the port altogether since the town, as far as the Minerva's officers knew, was for the time being in the hands of the rabble. This would mean that there would be no steamer for a month, as far as the mail service went; but Decoud had to take his chance of that. The island was his only shelter from the proscription hanging over his head. The Capataz was, of course, going back. The unloaded lighter leaked much less, and he thought that she would keep afloat as far as the harbour. He passed to Decoud, standing knee-deep alongside, one of the two spades which belonged to the equipment of each lighter for use when ballasting ships. By working with it carefully as soon as there was daylight enough to see, Decoud could loosen a mass of earth and stones overhanging the cavity in which they had deposited the treasure, so that it would look as if it had fallen naturally. It would cover up not only the cavity, but even all traces of their work, the footsteps, the displaced stones, and even the broken bushes. "Besides, who would think of looking either for you or the treasure here?" Nostromo continued, as if he could not tear himself away from the spot. "Nobody is ever likely to come here. What could any man want with this piece of earth as long as there is room for his feet on the mainland! The people in this country are not curious. There are even no fishermen here to intrude upon your worship. All the fishing that is done in the gulf goes on near Zapiga, over there. Senor, if you are forced to leave this island before anything can be arranged for you, do not try to make for Zapiga. It is a settlement of thieves and matreros, where they would cut your throat promptly for the sake of your gold watch and chain. And, senor, think twice before confiding in any one whatever; even in the officers of the Company's steamers, if you ever get on board one. Honesty alone is not enough for security. You must look to discretion and prudence in a man. And always remember, senor, before you open your lips for a confidence, that this treasure may be left safely here for hundreds of years. Time is on its side, senor. And silver is an incorruptible metal that can be trusted to keep its value for ever. . . . An incorruptible metal," he repeated, as if the idea had given him a profound pleasure. "As some men are said to be," Decoud pronounced, inscrutably, while the Capataz, who busied himself in baling out the lighter with a wooden bucket, went on throwing the water over the side with a regular splash. Decoud, incorrigible in his scepticism, reflected, not cynically, but with general satisfaction, that this man was made incorruptible by his enormous vanity, that finest form of egoism which can take on the aspect of every virtue. Nostromo ceased baling, and, as if struck with a sudden thought, dropped the bucket with a clatter into the lighter. "Have you any message?" he asked in a lowered voice. "Remember, I shall be asked questions." "You must find the hopeful words that ought to be spoken to the people in town. I trust for that your intelligence and your experience, Capataz. You understand?" "Si, senor. . . . For the ladies." "Yes, yes," said Decoud, hastily. "Your wonderful reputation will make them attach great value to your words; therefore be careful what you say. I am looking forward," he continued, feeling the fatal touch of contempt for himself to which his complex nature was subject, "I am looking forward to a glorious and successful ending to my mission. Do you hear, Capataz? Use the words glorious and successful when you speak to the senorita. Your own mission is accomplished gloriously and successfully. You have indubitably saved the silver of the mine. Not only this silver, but probably all the silver that shall ever come out of it." Nostromo detected the ironic tone. "I dare say, Senor Don Martin," he said, moodily. "There are very few things that I am not equal to. Ask the foreign signori. I, a man of the people, who cannot always understand what you mean. But as to this lot which I must leave here, let me tell you that I would believe it in greater safety if you had not been with me at all." An exclamation escaped Decoud, and a short pause followed. "Shall I go back with you to Sulaco?" he asked in an angry tone. "Shall I strike you dead with my knife where you stand?" retorted Nostromo, contemptuously. "It would be the same thing as taking you to Sulaco. Come, senor. Your reputation is in your politics, and mine is bound up with the fate of this silver. Do you wonder I wish there had been no other man to share my knowledge? I wanted no one with me, senor." "You could not have kept the lighter afloat without me," Decoud almost shouted. "You would have gone to the bottom with her." "Yes," uttered Nostromo, slowly; "alone." Here was a man, Decoud reflected, that seemed as though he would have preferred to die rather than deface the perfect form of his egoism. Such a man was safe. In silence he helped the Capataz to get the grapnel on board. Nostromo cleared the shelving shore with one push of the heavy oar, and Decoud found himself solitary on the beach like a man in a dream. A sudden desire to hear a human voice once more seized upon his heart. The lighter was hardly distinguishable from the black water upon which she floated. "What do you think has become of Hirsch?" he shouted. "Knocked overboard and drowned," cried Nostromo's voice confidently out of the black wastes of sky and sea around the islet. "Keep close in the ravine, senor. I shall try to come out to you in a night or two." A slight swishing rustle showed that Nostromo was setting the sail. It filled all at once with a sound as of a single loud drum-tap. Decoud went back to the ravine. Nostromo, at the tiller, looked back from time to time at the vanishing mass of the Great Isabel, which, little by little, merged into the uniform texture of the night. At last, when he turned his head again, he saw nothing but a smooth darkness, like a solid wall. Then he, too, experienced that feeling of solitude which had weighed heavily on Decoud after the lighter had slipped off the shore. But while the man on the island was oppressed by a bizarre sense of unreality affecting the very ground upon which he walked, the mind of the Capataz of the Cargadores turned alertly to the problem of future conduct. Nostromo's faculties, working on parallel lines, enabled him to steer straight, to keep a look-out for Hermosa, near which he had to pass, and to try to imagine what would happen tomorrow in Sulaco. To-morrow, or, as a matter of fact, to-day, since the dawn was not very far, Sotillo would find out in what way the treasure had gone. A gang of Cargadores had been employed in loading it into a railway truck from the Custom House store-rooms, and running the truck on to the wharf. There would be arrests made, and certainly before noon Sotillo would know in what manner the silver had left Sulaco, and who it was that took it out. Nostromo's intention had been to sail right into the harbour; but at this thought by a sudden touch of the tiller he threw the lighter into the wind and checked her rapid way. His re-appearance with the very boat would raise suspicions, would cause surmises, would absolutely put Sotillo on the track. He himself would be arrested; and once in the Calabozo there was no saying what they would do to him to make him speak. He trusted himself, but he stood up to look round. Near by, Hermosa showed low its white surface as flat as a table, with the slight run of the sea raised by the breeze washing over its edges noisily. The lighter must be sunk at once. He allowed her to drift with her sail aback. There was already a good deal of water in her. He allowed her to drift towards the harbour entrance, and, letting the tiller swing about, squatted down and busied himself in loosening the plug. With that out she would fill very quickly, and every lighter carried a little iron ballast--enough to make her go down when full of water. When he stood up again the noisy wash about the Hermosa sounded far away, almost inaudible; and already he could make out the shape of land about the harbour entrance. This was a desperate affair, and he was a good swimmer. A mile was nothing to him, and he knew of an easy place for landing just below the earthworks of the old abandoned fort. It occurred to him with a peculiar fascination that this fort was a good place in which to sleep the day through after so many sleepless nights. With one blow of the tiller he unshipped for the purpose, he knocked the plug out, but did not take the trouble to lower the sail. He felt the water welling up heavily about his legs before he leaped on to the taffrail. There, upright and motionless, in his shirt and trousers only, he stood waiting. When he had felt her settle he sprang far away with a mighty splash. At once he turned his head. The gloomy, clouded dawn from behind the mountains showed him on the smooth waters the upper corner of the sail, a dark wet triangle of canvas waving slightly to and fro. He saw it vanish, as if jerked under, and then struck out for the shore. PART THIRD THE LIGHTHOUSE CHAPTER ONE Directly the cargo boat had slipped away from the wharf and got lost in the darkness of the harbour the Europeans of Sulaco separated, to prepare for the coming of the Monterist regime, which was approaching Sulaco from the mountains, as well as from the sea. This bit of manual work in loading the silver was their last concerted action. It ended the three days of danger, during which, according to the newspaper press of Europe, their energy had preserved the town from the calamities of popular disorder. At the shore end of the jetty, Captain Mitchell said good-night and turned back. His intention was to walk the planks of the wharf till the steamer from Esmeralda turned up. The engineers of the railway staff, collecting their Basque and Italian workmen, marched them away to the railway yards, leaving the Custom House, so well defended on the first day of the riot, standing open to the four winds of heaven. Their men had conducted themselves bravely and faithfully during the famous "three days" of Sulaco. In a great part this faithfulness and that courage had been exercised in self-defence rather than in the cause of those material interests to which Charles Gould had pinned his faith. Amongst the cries of the mob not the least loud had been the cry of death to foreigners. It was, indeed, a lucky circumstance for Sulaco that the relations of those imported workmen with the people of the country had been uniformly bad from the first. Doctor Monygham, going to the door of Viola's kitchen, observed this retreat marking the end of the foreign interference, this withdrawal of the army of material progress from the field of Costaguana revolutions. Algarrobe torches carried on the outskirts of the moving body sent their penetrating aroma into his nostrils. Their light, sweeping along the front of the house, made the letters of the inscription, "Albergo d'ltalia Una," leap out black from end to end of the long wall. His eyes blinked in the clear blaze. Several young men, mostly fair and tall, shepherding this mob of dark bronzed heads, surmounted by the glint of slanting rifle barrels, nodded to him familiarly as they went by. The doctor was a well-known character. Some of them wondered what he was doing there. Then, on the flank of their workmen they tramped on, following the line of rails. "Withdrawing your people from the harbour?" said the doctor, addressing himself to the chief engineer of the railway, who had accompanied Charles Gould so far on his way to the town, walking by the side of the horse, with his hand on the saddle-bow. They had stopped just outside the open door to let the workmen cross the road. "As quick as I can. We are not a political faction," answered the engineer, meaningly. "And we are not going to give our new rulers a handle against the railway. You approve me, Gould?" "Absolutely," said Charles Gould's impassive voice, high up and outside the dim parallelogram of light falling on the road through the open door. With Sotillo expected from one side, and Pedro Montero from the other, the engineer-in-chief's only anxiety now was to avoid a collision with either. Sulaco, for him, was a railway station, a terminus, workshops, a great accumulation of stores. As against the mob the railway defended its property, but politically the railway was neutral. He was a brave man; and in that spirit of neutrality he had carried proposals of truce to the self-appointed chiefs of the popular party, the deputies Fuentes and Gamacho. Bullets were still flying about when he had crossed the Plaza on that mission, waving above his head a white napkin belonging to the table linen of the Amarilla Club. He was rather proud of this exploit; and reflecting that the doctor, busy all day with the wounded in the patio of the Casa Gould, had not had time to hear the news, he began a succinct narrative. He had communicated to them the intelligence from the Construction Camp as to Pedro Montero. The brother of the victorious general, he had assured them, could be expected at Sulaco at any time now. This news (as he anticipated), when shouted out of the window by Senor Gamacho, induced a rush of the mob along the Campo Road towards Rincon. The two deputies also, after shaking hands with him effusively, mounted and galloped off to meet the great man. "I have misled them a little as to the time," the chief engineer confessed. "However hard he rides, he can scarcely get here before the morning. But my object is attained. I've secured several hours' peace for the losing party. But I did not tell them anything about Sotillo, for fear they would take it into their heads to try to get hold of the harbour again, either to oppose him or welcome him--there's no saying which. There was Gould's silver, on which rests the remnant of our hopes. Decoud's retreat had to be thought of, too. I think the railway has done pretty well by its friends without compromising itself hopelessly. Now the parties must be left to themselves." "Costaguana for the Costaguaneros," interjected the doctor, sardonically. "It is a fine country, and they have raised a fine crop of hates, vengeance, murder, and rapine--those sons of the country." "Well, I am one of them," Charles Gould's voice sounded, calmly, "and I must be going on to see to my own crop of trouble. My wife has driven straight on, doctor?" "Yes. All was quiet on this side. Mrs. Gould has taken the two girls with her." Charles Gould rode on, and the engineer-in-chief followed the doctor indoors. "That man is calmness personified," he said, appreciatively, dropping on a bench, and stretching his well-shaped legs in cycling stockings nearly across the doorway. "He must be extremely sure of himself." "If that's all he is sure of, then he is sure of nothing," said the doctor. He had perched himself again on the end of the table. He nursed his cheek in the palm of one hand, while the other sustained the elbow. "It is the last thing a man ought to be sure of." The candle, half-consumed and burning dimly with a long wick, lighted up from below his inclined face, whose expression affected by the drawn-in cicatrices in the cheeks, had something vaguely unnatural, an exaggerated remorseful bitterness. As he sat there he had the air of meditating upon sinister things. The engineer-in-chief gazed at him for a time before he protested. "I really don't see that. For me there seems to be nothing else. However----" He was a wise man, but he could not quite conceal his contempt for that sort of paradox; in fact. Dr. Monygham was not liked by the Europeans of Sulaco. His outward aspect of an outcast, which he preserved even in Mrs. Gould's drawing-room, provoked unfavourable criticism. There could be no doubt of his intelligence; and as he had lived for over twenty years in the country, the pessimism of his outlook could not be altogether ignored. But instinctively, in self-defence of their activities and hopes, his hearers put it to the account of some hidden imperfection in the man's character. It was known that many years before, when quite young, he had been made by Guzman Bento chief medical officer of the army. Not one of the Europeans then in the service of Costaguana had been so much liked and trusted by the fierce old Dictator. Afterwards his story was not so clear. It lost itself amongst the innumerable tales of conspiracies and plots against the tyrant as a stream is lost in an arid belt of sandy country before it emerges, diminished and troubled, perhaps, on the other side. The doctor made no secret of it that he had lived for years in the wildest parts of the Republic, wandering with almost unknown Indian tribes in the great forests of the far interior where the great rivers have their sources. But it was mere aimless wandering; he had written nothing, collected nothing, brought nothing for science out of the twilight of the forests, which seemed to cling to his battered personality limping about Sulaco, where it had drifted in casually, only to get stranded on the shores of the sea. It was also known that he had lived in a state of destitution till the arrival of the Goulds from Europe. Don Carlos and Dona Emilia had taken up the mad English doctor, when it became apparent that for all his savage independence he could be tamed by kindness. Perhaps it was only hunger that had tamed him. In years gone by he had certainly been acquainted with Charles Gould's father in Sta. Marta; and now, no matter what were the dark passages of his history, as the medical officer of the San Tome mine he became a recognized personality. He was recognized, but not unreservedly accepted. So much defiant eccentricity and such an outspoken scorn for mankind seemed to point to mere recklessness of judgment, the bravado of guilt. Besides, since he had become again of some account, vague whispers had been heard that years ago, when fallen into disgrace and thrown into prison by Guzman Bento at the time of the so-called Great Conspiracy, he had betrayed some of his best friends amongst the conspirators. Nobody pretended to believe that whisper; the whole story of the Great Conspiracy was hopelessly involved and obscure; it is admitted in Costaguana that there never had been a conspiracy except in the diseased imagination of the Tyrant; and, therefore, nothing and no one to betray; though the most distinguished Costaguaneros had been imprisoned and executed upon that accusation. The procedure had dragged on for years, decimating the better class like a pestilence. The mere expression of sorrow for the fate of executed kinsmen had been punished with death. Don Jose Avellanos was perhaps the only one living who knew the whole story of those unspeakable cruelties. He had suffered from them himself, and he, with a shrug of the shoulders and a nervous, jerky gesture of the arm, was wont to put away from him, as it were, every allusion to it. But whatever the reason, Dr. Monygham, a personage in the administration of the Gould Concession, treated with reverent awe by the miners, and indulged in his peculiarities by Mrs. Gould, remained somehow outside the pale. It was not from any liking for the doctor that the engineer-in-chief had lingered in the inn upon the plain. He liked old Viola much better. He had come to look upon the Albergo d'ltalia Una as a dependence of the railway. Many of his subordinates had their quarters there. Mrs. Gould's interest in the family conferred upon it a sort of distinction. The engineer-in-chief, with an army of workers under his orders, appreciated the moral influence of the old Garibaldino upon his countrymen. His austere, old-world Republicanism had a severe, soldier-like standard of faithfulness and duty, as if the world were a battlefield where men had to fight for the sake of universal love and brotherhood, instead of a more or less large share of booty. "Poor old chap!" he said, after he had heard the doctor's account of Teresa. "He'll never be able to keep the place going by himself. I shall be sorry." "He's quite alone up there," grunted Doctor Monygham, with a toss of his heavy head towards the narrow staircase. "Every living soul has cleared out, and Mrs. Gould took the girls away just now. It might not be over-safe for them out here before very long. Of course, as a doctor I can do nothing more here; but she has asked me to stay with old Viola, and as I have no horse to get back to the mine, where I ought to be, I made no difficulty to stay. They can do without me in the town." "I have a good mind to remain with you, doctor, till we see whether anything happens to-night at the harbour," declared the engineer-in-chief. "He must not be molested by Sotillo's soldiery, who may push on as far as this at once. Sotillo used to be very cordial to me at the Goulds' and at the club. How that man'll ever dare to look any of his friends here in the face

cottage

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

was completely wet), disclosed to the toiling Decoud the eagerness of his face, bent low over the box of the compass, and the attentive stare of his eyes. He knew now where he was, and he hoped to run the sinking lighter ashore in the shallow cove where the high, cliff-like end of the Great Isabel is divided in two equal parts by a deep and overgrown ravine. Decoud pumped without intermission. Nostromo steered without relaxing for a second the intense, peering effort of his stare. Each of them was as if utterly alone with his task. It did not occur to them to speak. There was nothing in common between them but the knowledge that the damaged lighter must be slowly but surely sinking. In that knowledge, which was like the crucial test of their desires, they seemed to have become completely estranged, as if they had discovered in the very shock of the collision that the loss of the lighter would not mean the same thing to them both. This common danger brought their differences in aim, in view, in character, and in position, into absolute prominence in the private vision of each. There was no bond of conviction, of common idea; they were merely two adventurers pursuing each his own adventure, involved in the same imminence of deadly peril. Therefore they had nothing to say to each other. But this peril, this only incontrovertible truth in which they shared, seemed to act as an inspiration to their mental and bodily powers. There was certainly something almost miraculous in the way the Capataz made the cove with nothing but the shadowy hint of the island's shape and the vague gleam of a small sandy strip for a guide. Where the ravine opens between the cliffs, and a slender, shallow rivulet meanders out of the bushes to lose itself in the sea, the lighter was run ashore; and the two men, with a taciturn, undaunted energy, began to discharge her precious freight, carrying each ox-hide box up the bed of the rivulet beyond the bushes to a hollow place which the caving in of the soil had made below the roots of a large tree. Its big smooth trunk leaned like a falling column far over the trickle of water running amongst the loose stones. A couple of years before Nostromo had spent a whole Sunday, all alone, exploring the island. He explained this to Decoud after their task was done, and they sat, weary in every limb, with their legs hanging down the low bank, and their backs against the tree, like a pair of blind men aware of each other and their surroundings by some indefinable sixth sense. "Yes," Nostromo repeated, "I never forget a place I have carefully looked at once." He spoke slowly, almost lazily, as if there had been a whole leisurely life before him, instead of the scanty two hours before daylight. The existence of the treasure, barely concealed in this improbable spot, laid a burden of secrecy upon every contemplated step, upon every intention and plan of future conduct. He felt the partial failure of this desperate affair entrusted to the great reputation he had known how to make for himself. However, it was also a partial success. His vanity was half appeased. His nervous irritation had subsided. "You never know what may be of use," he pursued with his usual quietness of tone and manner. "I spent a whole miserable Sunday in exploring this crumb of land." "A misanthropic sort of occupation," muttered Decoud, viciously. "You had no money, I suppose, to gamble with, and to fling about amongst the girls in your usual haunts, Capataz." "_E vero!_" exclaimed the Capataz, surprised into the use of his native tongue by so much perspicacity. "I had not! Therefore I did not want to go amongst those beggarly people accustomed to my generosity. It is looked for from the Capataz of the Cargadores, who are the rich men, and, as it were, the Caballeros amongst the common people. I don't care for cards but as a pastime; and as to those girls that boast of having opened their doors to my knock, you know I wouldn't look at any one of them twice except for what the people would say. They are queer, the good people of Sulaco, and I have got much useful information simply by listening patiently to the talk of the women that everybody believed I was in love with. Poor Teresa could never understand that. On that particular Sunday, senor, she scolded so that I went out of the house swearing that I would never darken their door again unless to fetch away my hammock and my chest of clothes. Senor, there is nothing more exasperating than to hear a woman you respect rail against your good reputation when you have not a single brass coin in your pocket. I untied one of the small boats and pulled myself out of the harbour with nothing but three cigars in my pocket to help me spend the day on this island. But the water of this rivulet you hear under your feet is cool and sweet and good, senor, both before and after a smoke." He was silent for a while, then added reflectively, "That was the first Sunday after I brought down the white-whiskered English rico all the way down the mountains from the Paramo on the top of the Entrada Pass--and in the coach, too! No coach had gone up or down that mountain road within the memory of man, senor, till I brought this one down in charge of fifty peons working like one man with ropes, pickaxes, and poles under my direction. That was the rich Englishman who, as people say, pays for the making of this railway. He was very pleased with me. But my wages were not due till the end of the month." He slid down the bank suddenly. Decoud heard the splash of his feet in the brook and followed his footsteps down the ravine. His form was lost among the bushes till he had reached the strip of sand under the cliff. As often happens in the gulf when the showers during the first part of the night had been frequent and heavy, the darkness had thinned considerably towards the morning though there were no signs of daylight as yet. The cargo-lighter, relieved of its precious burden, rocked feebly, half-afloat, with her fore-foot on the sand. A long rope stretched away like a black cotton thread across the strip of white beach to the grapnel Nostromo had carried ashore and hooked to the stem of a tree-like shrub in the very opening of the ravine. There was nothing for Decoud but to remain on the island. He received from Nostromo's hands whatever food the foresight of Captain Mitchell had put on board the lighter and deposited it temporarily in the little dinghy which on their arrival they had hauled up out of sight amongst the bushes. It was to be left with him. The island was to be a hiding-place, not a prison; he could pull out to a passing ship. The O.S.N. Company's mail boats passed close to the islands when going into Sulaco from the north. But the Minerva, carrying off the ex-president, had taken the news up north of the disturbances in Sulaco. It was possible that the next steamer down would get instructions to miss the port altogether since the town, as far as the Minerva's officers knew, was for the time being in the hands of the rabble. This would mean that there would be no steamer for a month, as far as the mail service went; but Decoud had to take his chance of that. The island was his only shelter from the proscription hanging over his head. The Capataz was, of course, going back. The unloaded lighter leaked much less, and he thought that she would keep afloat as far as the harbour. He passed to Decoud, standing knee-deep alongside, one of the two spades which belonged to the equipment of each lighter for use when ballasting ships. By working with it carefully as soon as there was daylight enough to see, Decoud could loosen a mass of earth and stones overhanging the cavity in which they had deposited the treasure, so that it would look as if it had fallen naturally. It would cover up not only the cavity, but even all traces of their work, the footsteps, the displaced stones, and even the broken bushes. "Besides, who would think of looking either for you or the treasure here?" Nostromo continued, as if he could not tear himself away from the spot. "Nobody is ever likely to come here. What could any man want with this piece of earth as long as there is room for his feet on the mainland! The people in this country are not curious. There are even no fishermen here to intrude upon your worship. All the fishing that is done in the gulf goes on near Zapiga, over there. Senor, if you are forced to leave this island before anything can be arranged for you, do not try to make for Zapiga. It is a settlement of thieves and matreros, where they would cut your throat promptly for the sake of your gold watch and chain. And, senor, think twice before confiding in any one whatever; even in the officers of the Company's steamers, if you ever get on board one. Honesty alone is not enough for security. You must look to discretion and prudence in a man. And always remember, senor, before you open your lips for a confidence, that this treasure may be left safely here for hundreds of years. Time is on its side, senor. And silver is an incorruptible metal that can be trusted to keep its value for ever. . . . An incorruptible metal," he repeated, as if the idea had given him a profound pleasure. "As some men are said to be," Decoud pronounced, inscrutably, while the Capataz, who busied himself in baling out the lighter with a wooden bucket, went on throwing the water over the side with a regular splash. Decoud, incorrigible in his scepticism, reflected, not cynically, but with general satisfaction, that this man was made incorruptible by his enormous vanity, that finest form of egoism which can take on the aspect of every virtue. Nostromo ceased baling, and, as if struck with a sudden thought, dropped the bucket with a clatter into the lighter. "Have you any message?" he asked in a lowered voice. "Remember, I shall be asked questions." "You must find the hopeful words that ought to be spoken to the people in town. I trust for that your intelligence and your experience, Capataz. You understand?" "Si, senor. . . . For the ladies." "Yes, yes," said Decoud, hastily. "Your wonderful reputation will make them attach great value to your words; therefore be careful what you say. I am looking forward," he continued, feeling the fatal touch of contempt for himself to which his complex nature was subject, "I am looking forward to a glorious and successful ending to my mission. Do you hear, Capataz? Use the words glorious and successful when you speak to the senorita. Your own mission is accomplished gloriously and successfully. You have indubitably saved the silver of the mine. Not only this silver, but probably all the silver that shall ever come out of it." Nostromo detected the ironic tone. "I dare say, Senor Don Martin," he said, moodily. "There are very few things that I am not equal to. Ask the foreign signori. I, a man of the people, who cannot always understand what you mean. But as to this lot which I must leave here, let me tell you that I would believe it in greater safety if you had not been with me at all." An exclamation escaped Decoud, and a short pause followed. "Shall I go back with you to Sulaco?" he asked in an angry tone. "Shall I strike you dead with my knife where you stand?" retorted Nostromo, contemptuously. "It would be the same thing as taking you to Sulaco. Come, senor. Your reputation is in your politics, and mine is bound up with the fate of this silver. Do you wonder I wish there had been no other man to share my knowledge? I wanted no one with me, senor." "You could not have kept the lighter afloat without me," Decoud almost shouted. "You would have gone to the bottom with her." "Yes," uttered Nostromo, slowly; "alone." Here was a man, Decoud reflected, that seemed as though he would have preferred to die rather than deface the perfect form of his egoism. Such a man was safe. In silence he helped the Capataz to get the grapnel on board. Nostromo cleared the shelving shore with one push of the heavy oar, and Decoud found himself solitary on the beach like a man in a dream. A sudden desire to hear a human voice once more seized upon his heart. The lighter was hardly distinguishable from the black water upon which she floated. "What do you think has become of Hirsch?" he shouted. "Knocked overboard and drowned," cried Nostromo's voice confidently out of the black wastes of sky and sea around the islet. "Keep close in the ravine, senor. I shall try to come out to you in a night or two." A slight swishing rustle showed that Nostromo was setting the sail. It filled all at once with a sound as of a single loud drum-tap. Decoud went back to the ravine. Nostromo, at the tiller, looked back from time to time at the vanishing mass of the Great Isabel, which, little by little, merged into the uniform texture of the night. At last, when he turned his head again, he saw nothing but a smooth darkness, like a solid wall. Then he, too, experienced that feeling of solitude which had weighed heavily on Decoud after the lighter had slipped off the shore. But while the man on the island was oppressed by a bizarre sense of unreality affecting the very ground upon which he walked, the mind of the Capataz of the Cargadores turned alertly to the problem of future conduct. Nostromo's faculties, working on parallel lines, enabled him to steer straight, to keep a look-out for Hermosa, near which he had to pass, and to try to imagine what would happen tomorrow in Sulaco. To-morrow, or, as a matter of fact, to-day, since the dawn was not very far, Sotillo would find out in what way the treasure had gone. A gang of Cargadores had been employed in loading it into a railway truck from the Custom House store-rooms, and running the truck on to the wharf. There would be arrests made, and certainly before noon Sotillo would know in what manner the silver had left Sulaco, and who it was that took it out. Nostromo's intention had been to sail right into the harbour; but at this thought by a sudden touch of the tiller he threw the lighter into the wind and checked her rapid way. His re-appearance with the very boat would raise suspicions, would cause surmises, would absolutely put Sotillo on the track. He himself would be arrested; and once in the Calabozo there was no saying what they would do to him to make him speak. He trusted himself, but he stood up to look round. Near by, Hermosa showed low its white surface as flat as a table, with the slight run of the sea raised by the breeze washing over its edges noisily. The lighter must be sunk at once. He allowed her to drift with her sail aback. There was already a good deal of water in her. He allowed her to drift towards the harbour entrance, and, letting the tiller swing about, squatted down and busied himself in loosening the plug. With that out she would fill very quickly, and every lighter carried a little iron ballast--enough to make her go down when full of water. When he stood up again the noisy wash about the Hermosa sounded far away, almost inaudible; and already he could make out the shape of land about the harbour entrance. This was a desperate affair, and he was a good swimmer. A mile was nothing to him, and he knew of an easy place for landing just below the earthworks of the old abandoned fort. It occurred to him with a peculiar fascination that this fort was a good place in which to sleep the day through after so many sleepless nights. With one blow of the tiller he unshipped for the purpose, he knocked the plug out, but did not take the trouble to lower the sail. He felt the water welling up heavily about his legs before he leaped on to the taffrail. There, upright and motionless, in his shirt and trousers only, he stood waiting. When he had felt her settle he sprang far away with a mighty splash. At once he turned his head. The gloomy, clouded dawn from behind the mountains showed him on the smooth waters the upper corner of the sail, a dark wet triangle of canvas waving slightly to and fro. He saw it vanish, as if jerked under, and then struck out for the shore. PART THIRD THE LIGHTHOUSE CHAPTER ONE Directly the cargo boat had slipped away from the wharf and got lost in the darkness of the harbour the Europeans of Sulaco separated, to prepare for the coming of the Monterist regime, which was approaching Sulaco from the mountains, as well as from the sea. This bit of manual work in loading the silver was their last concerted action. It ended the three days of danger, during which, according to the newspaper press of Europe, their energy had preserved the town from the calamities of popular disorder. At the shore end of the jetty, Captain Mitchell said good-night and turned back. His intention was to walk the planks of the wharf till the steamer from Esmeralda turned up. The engineers of the railway staff, collecting their Basque and Italian workmen, marched them away to the railway yards, leaving the Custom House, so well defended on the first day of the riot, standing open to the four winds of heaven. Their men had conducted themselves bravely and faithfully during the famous "three days" of Sulaco. In a great part this faithfulness and that courage had been exercised in self-defence rather than in the cause of those material interests to which Charles Gould had pinned his faith. Amongst the cries of the mob not the least loud had been the cry of death to foreigners. It was, indeed, a lucky circumstance for Sulaco that the relations of those imported workmen with the people of the country had been uniformly bad from the first. Doctor Monygham, going to the door of Viola's kitchen, observed this retreat marking the end of the foreign interference, this withdrawal of the army of material progress from the field of Costaguana revolutions. Algarrobe torches carried on the outskirts of the moving body sent their penetrating aroma into his nostrils. Their light, sweeping along the front of the house, made the letters of the inscription, "Albergo d'ltalia Una," leap out black from end to end of the long wall. His eyes blinked in the clear blaze. Several young men, mostly fair and tall, shepherding this mob of dark bronzed heads, surmounted by the glint of slanting rifle barrels, nodded to him familiarly as they went by. The doctor was a well-known character. Some of them wondered what he was doing there. Then, on the flank of their workmen they tramped on, following the line of rails. "Withdrawing your people from the harbour?" said the doctor, addressing himself to the chief engineer of the railway, who had accompanied Charles Gould so far on his way to the town, walking by the side of the horse, with his hand on the saddle-bow. They had stopped just outside the open door to let the workmen cross the road. "As quick as I can. We are not a political faction," answered the engineer, meaningly. "And we are not going to give our new rulers a handle against the railway. You approve me, Gould?" "Absolutely," said Charles Gould's impassive voice, high up and outside the dim parallelogram of light falling on the road through the open door. With Sotillo expected from one side, and Pedro Montero from the other, the engineer-in-chief's only anxiety now was to avoid a collision with either. Sulaco, for him, was a railway station, a terminus, workshops, a great accumulation of stores. As against the mob the railway defended its property, but politically the railway was neutral. He was a brave man; and in that spirit of neutrality he had carried proposals of truce to the self-appointed chiefs of the popular party, the deputies Fuentes and Gamacho. Bullets were still flying about when he had crossed the Plaza on that mission, waving above his head a white napkin belonging to the table linen of the Amarilla Club. He was rather proud of this exploit; and reflecting that the doctor, busy all day with the wounded in the patio of the Casa Gould, had not had time to hear the news, he began a succinct narrative. He had communicated to them the intelligence from the Construction Camp as to Pedro Montero. The brother of the victorious general, he had assured them, could be expected at Sulaco at any time now. This news (as he anticipated), when shouted out of the window by Senor Gamacho, induced a rush of the mob along the Campo Road towards Rincon. The two deputies also, after shaking hands with him effusively, mounted and galloped off to meet the great man. "I have misled them a little as to the time," the chief engineer confessed. "However hard he rides, he can scarcely get here before the morning. But my object is attained. I've secured several hours' peace for the losing party. But I did not tell them anything about Sotillo, for fear they would take it into their heads to try to get hold of the harbour again, either to oppose him or welcome him--there's no saying which. There was Gould's silver, on which rests the remnant of our hopes. Decoud's retreat had to be thought of, too. I think the railway has done pretty well by its friends without compromising itself hopelessly. Now the parties must be left to themselves." "Costaguana for the Costaguaneros," interjected the doctor, sardonically. "It is a fine country, and they have raised a fine crop of hates, vengeance, murder, and rapine--those sons of the country." "Well, I am one of them," Charles Gould's voice sounded, calmly, "and I must be going on to see to my own crop of trouble. My wife has driven straight on, doctor?" "Yes. All was quiet on this side. Mrs. Gould has taken the two girls with her." Charles Gould rode on, and the engineer-in-chief followed the doctor indoors. "That man is calmness personified," he said, appreciatively, dropping on a bench, and stretching his well-shaped legs in cycling stockings nearly across the doorway. "He must be extremely sure of himself." "If that's all he is sure of, then he is sure of nothing," said the doctor. He had perched himself again on the end of the table. He nursed his cheek in the palm of one hand, while the other sustained the elbow. "It is the last thing a man ought to be sure of." The candle, half-consumed and burning dimly with a long wick, lighted up from below his inclined face, whose expression affected by the drawn-in cicatrices in the cheeks, had something vaguely unnatural, an exaggerated remorseful bitterness. As he sat there he had the air of meditating upon sinister things. The engineer-in-chief gazed at him for a time before he protested. "I really don't see that. For me there seems to be nothing else. However----" He was a wise man, but he could not quite conceal his contempt for that sort of paradox; in fact. Dr. Monygham was not liked by the Europeans of Sulaco. His outward aspect of an outcast, which he preserved even in Mrs. Gould's drawing-room, provoked unfavourable criticism. There could be no doubt of his intelligence; and as he had lived for over twenty years in the country, the pessimism of his outlook could not be altogether ignored. But instinctively, in self-defence of their activities and hopes, his hearers put it to the account of some hidden imperfection in the man's character. It was known that many years before, when quite young, he had been made by Guzman Bento chief medical officer of the army. Not one of the Europeans then in the service of Costaguana had been so much liked and trusted by the fierce old Dictator. Afterwards his story was not so clear. It lost itself amongst the innumerable tales of conspiracies and plots against the tyrant as a stream is lost in an arid belt of sandy country before it emerges, diminished and troubled, perhaps, on the other side. The doctor made no secret of it that he had lived for years in the wildest parts of the Republic, wandering with almost unknown Indian tribes in the great forests of the far interior where the great rivers have their sources. But it was mere aimless wandering; he had written nothing, collected nothing, brought nothing for science out of the twilight of the forests, which seemed to cling to his battered personality limping about Sulaco, where it had drifted in casually, only to get stranded on the shores of the sea. It was also known that he had lived in a state of destitution till the arrival of the Goulds from Europe. Don Carlos and Dona Emilia had taken up the mad English doctor, when it became apparent that for all his savage independence he could be tamed by kindness. Perhaps it was only hunger that had tamed him. In years gone by he had certainly been acquainted with Charles Gould's father in Sta. Marta; and now, no matter what were the dark passages of his history, as the medical officer of the San Tome mine he became a recognized personality. He was recognized, but not unreservedly accepted. So much defiant eccentricity and such an outspoken scorn for mankind seemed to point to mere recklessness of judgment, the bravado of guilt. Besides, since he had become again of some account, vague whispers had been heard that years ago, when fallen into disgrace and thrown into prison by Guzman Bento at the time of the so-called Great Conspiracy, he had betrayed some of his best friends amongst the conspirators. Nobody pretended to believe that whisper; the whole story of the Great Conspiracy was hopelessly involved and obscure; it is admitted in Costaguana that there never had been a conspiracy except in the diseased imagination of the Tyrant; and, therefore, nothing and no one to betray; though the most distinguished Costaguaneros had been imprisoned and executed upon that accusation. The procedure had dragged on for years, decimating the better class like a pestilence. The mere expression of sorrow for the fate of executed kinsmen had been punished with death. Don Jose Avellanos was perhaps the only one living who knew the whole story of those unspeakable cruelties. He had suffered from them himself, and he, with a shrug of the shoulders and a nervous, jerky gesture of the arm, was wont to put away from him, as it were, every allusion to it. But whatever the reason, Dr. Monygham, a personage in the administration of the Gould Concession, treated with reverent awe by the miners, and indulged in his peculiarities by Mrs. Gould, remained somehow outside the pale. It was not from any liking for the doctor that the engineer-in-chief had lingered in the inn upon the plain. He liked old Viola much better. He had come to look upon the Albergo d'ltalia Una as a dependence of the railway. Many of his subordinates had their quarters there. Mrs. Gould's interest in the family conferred upon it a sort of distinction. The engineer-in-chief, with an army of workers under his orders, appreciated the moral influence of the old Garibaldino upon his countrymen. His austere, old-world Republicanism had a severe, soldier-like standard of faithfulness and duty, as if the world were a battlefield where men had to fight for the sake of universal love and brotherhood, instead of a more or less large share of booty. "Poor old chap!" he said, after he had heard the doctor's account of Teresa. "He'll never be able to keep the place going by himself. I shall be sorry." "He's quite alone up there," grunted Doctor Monygham, with a toss of his heavy head towards the narrow staircase. "Every living soul has cleared out, and Mrs. Gould took the girls away just now. It might not be over-safe for them out here before very long. Of course, as a doctor I can do nothing more here; but she has asked me to stay with old Viola, and as I have no horse to get back to the mine, where I ought to be, I made no difficulty to stay. They can do without me in the town." "I have a good mind to remain with you, doctor, till we see whether anything happens to-night at the harbour," declared the engineer-in-chief. "He must not be molested by Sotillo's soldiery, who may push on as far as this at once. Sotillo used to be very cordial to me at the Goulds' and at the club. How that man'll ever dare to look any of his friends here in the face

even

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

was completely wet), disclosed to the toiling Decoud the eagerness of his face, bent low over the box of the compass, and the attentive stare of his eyes. He knew now where he was, and he hoped to run the sinking lighter ashore in the shallow cove where the high, cliff-like end of the Great Isabel is divided in two equal parts by a deep and overgrown ravine. Decoud pumped without intermission. Nostromo steered without relaxing for a second the intense, peering effort of his stare. Each of them was as if utterly alone with his task. It did not occur to them to speak. There was nothing in common between them but the knowledge that the damaged lighter must be slowly but surely sinking. In that knowledge, which was like the crucial test of their desires, they seemed to have become completely estranged, as if they had discovered in the very shock of the collision that the loss of the lighter would not mean the same thing to them both. This common danger brought their differences in aim, in view, in character, and in position, into absolute prominence in the private vision of each. There was no bond of conviction, of common idea; they were merely two adventurers pursuing each his own adventure, involved in the same imminence of deadly peril. Therefore they had nothing to say to each other. But this peril, this only incontrovertible truth in which they shared, seemed to act as an inspiration to their mental and bodily powers. There was certainly something almost miraculous in the way the Capataz made the cove with nothing but the shadowy hint of the island's shape and the vague gleam of a small sandy strip for a guide. Where the ravine opens between the cliffs, and a slender, shallow rivulet meanders out of the bushes to lose itself in the sea, the lighter was run ashore; and the two men, with a taciturn, undaunted energy, began to discharge her precious freight, carrying each ox-hide box up the bed of the rivulet beyond the bushes to a hollow place which the caving in of the soil had made below the roots of a large tree. Its big smooth trunk leaned like a falling column far over the trickle of water running amongst the loose stones. A couple of years before Nostromo had spent a whole Sunday, all alone, exploring the island. He explained this to Decoud after their task was done, and they sat, weary in every limb, with their legs hanging down the low bank, and their backs against the tree, like a pair of blind men aware of each other and their surroundings by some indefinable sixth sense. "Yes," Nostromo repeated, "I never forget a place I have carefully looked at once." He spoke slowly, almost lazily, as if there had been a whole leisurely life before him, instead of the scanty two hours before daylight. The existence of the treasure, barely concealed in this improbable spot, laid a burden of secrecy upon every contemplated step, upon every intention and plan of future conduct. He felt the partial failure of this desperate affair entrusted to the great reputation he had known how to make for himself. However, it was also a partial success. His vanity was half appeased. His nervous irritation had subsided. "You never know what may be of use," he pursued with his usual quietness of tone and manner. "I spent a whole miserable Sunday in exploring this crumb of land." "A misanthropic sort of occupation," muttered Decoud, viciously. "You had no money, I suppose, to gamble with, and to fling about amongst the girls in your usual haunts, Capataz." "_E vero!_" exclaimed the Capataz, surprised into the use of his native tongue by so much perspicacity. "I had not! Therefore I did not want to go amongst those beggarly people accustomed to my generosity. It is looked for from the Capataz of the Cargadores, who are the rich men, and, as it were, the Caballeros amongst the common people. I don't care for cards but as a pastime; and as to those girls that boast of having opened their doors to my knock, you know I wouldn't look at any one of them twice except for what the people would say. They are queer, the good people of Sulaco, and I have got much useful information simply by listening patiently to the talk of the women that everybody believed I was in love with. Poor Teresa could never understand that. On that particular Sunday, senor, she scolded so that I went out of the house swearing that I would never darken their door again unless to fetch away my hammock and my chest of clothes. Senor, there is nothing more exasperating than to hear a woman you respect rail against your good reputation when you have not a single brass coin in your pocket. I untied one of the small boats and pulled myself out of the harbour with nothing but three cigars in my pocket to help me spend the day on this island. But the water of this rivulet you hear under your feet is cool and sweet and good, senor, both before and after a smoke." He was silent for a while, then added reflectively, "That was the first Sunday after I brought down the white-whiskered English rico all the way down the mountains from the Paramo on the top of the Entrada Pass--and in the coach, too! No coach had gone up or down that mountain road within the memory of man, senor, till I brought this one down in charge of fifty peons working like one man with ropes, pickaxes, and poles under my direction. That was the rich Englishman who, as people say, pays for the making of this railway. He was very pleased with me. But my wages were not due till the end of the month." He slid down the bank suddenly. Decoud heard the splash of his feet in the brook and followed his footsteps down the ravine. His form was lost among the bushes till he had reached the strip of sand under the cliff. As often happens in the gulf when the showers during the first part of the night had been frequent and heavy, the darkness had thinned considerably towards the morning though there were no signs of daylight as yet. The cargo-lighter, relieved of its precious burden, rocked feebly, half-afloat, with her fore-foot on the sand. A long rope stretched away like a black cotton thread across the strip of white beach to the grapnel Nostromo had carried ashore and hooked to the stem of a tree-like shrub in the very opening of the ravine. There was nothing for Decoud but to remain on the island. He received from Nostromo's hands whatever food the foresight of Captain Mitchell had put on board the lighter and deposited it temporarily in the little dinghy which on their arrival they had hauled up out of sight amongst the bushes. It was to be left with him. The island was to be a hiding-place, not a prison; he could pull out to a passing ship. The O.S.N. Company's mail boats passed close to the islands when going into Sulaco from the north. But the Minerva, carrying off the ex-president, had taken the news up north of the disturbances in Sulaco. It was possible that the next steamer down would get instructions to miss the port altogether since the town, as far as the Minerva's officers knew, was for the time being in the hands of the rabble. This would mean that there would be no steamer for a month, as far as the mail service went; but Decoud had to take his chance of that. The island was his only shelter from the proscription hanging over his head. The Capataz was, of course, going back. The unloaded lighter leaked much less, and he thought that she would keep afloat as far as the harbour. He passed to Decoud, standing knee-deep alongside, one of the two spades which belonged to the equipment of each lighter for use when ballasting ships. By working with it carefully as soon as there was daylight enough to see, Decoud could loosen a mass of earth and stones overhanging the cavity in which they had deposited the treasure, so that it would look as if it had fallen naturally. It would cover up not only the cavity, but even all traces of their work, the footsteps, the displaced stones, and even the broken bushes. "Besides, who would think of looking either for you or the treasure here?" Nostromo continued, as if he could not tear himself away from the spot. "Nobody is ever likely to come here. What could any man want with this piece of earth as long as there is room for his feet on the mainland! The people in this country are not curious. There are even no fishermen here to intrude upon your worship. All the fishing that is done in the gulf goes on near Zapiga, over there. Senor, if you are forced to leave this island before anything can be arranged for you, do not try to make for Zapiga. It is a settlement of thieves and matreros, where they would cut your throat promptly for the sake of your gold watch and chain. And, senor, think twice before confiding in any one whatever; even in the officers of the Company's steamers, if you ever get on board one. Honesty alone is not enough for security. You must look to discretion and prudence in a man. And always remember, senor, before you open your lips for a confidence, that this treasure may be left safely here for hundreds of years. Time is on its side, senor. And silver is an incorruptible metal that can be trusted to keep its value for ever. . . . An incorruptible metal," he repeated, as if the idea had given him a profound pleasure. "As some men are said to be," Decoud pronounced, inscrutably, while the Capataz, who busied himself in baling out the lighter with a wooden bucket, went on throwing the water over the side with a regular splash. Decoud, incorrigible in his scepticism, reflected, not cynically, but with general satisfaction, that this man was made incorruptible by his enormous vanity, that finest form of egoism which can take on the aspect of every virtue. Nostromo ceased baling, and, as if struck with a sudden thought, dropped the bucket with a clatter into the lighter. "Have you any message?" he asked in a lowered voice. "Remember, I shall be asked questions." "You must find the hopeful words that ought to be spoken to the people in town. I trust for that your intelligence and your experience, Capataz. You understand?" "Si, senor. . . . For the ladies." "Yes, yes," said Decoud, hastily. "Your wonderful reputation will make them attach great value to your words; therefore be careful what you say. I am looking forward," he continued, feeling the fatal touch of contempt for himself to which his complex nature was subject, "I am looking forward to a glorious and successful ending to my mission. Do you hear, Capataz? Use the words glorious and successful when you speak to the senorita. Your own mission is accomplished gloriously and successfully. You have indubitably saved the silver of the mine. Not only this silver, but probably all the silver that shall ever come out of it." Nostromo detected the ironic tone. "I dare say, Senor Don Martin," he said, moodily. "There are very few things that I am not equal to. Ask the foreign signori. I, a man of the people, who cannot always understand what you mean. But as to this lot which I must leave here, let me tell you that I would believe it in greater safety if you had not been with me at all." An exclamation escaped Decoud, and a short pause followed. "Shall I go back with you to Sulaco?" he asked in an angry tone. "Shall I strike you dead with my knife where you stand?" retorted Nostromo, contemptuously. "It would be the same thing as taking you to Sulaco. Come, senor. Your reputation is in your politics, and mine is bound up with the fate of this silver. Do you wonder I wish there had been no other man to share my knowledge? I wanted no one with me, senor." "You could not have kept the lighter afloat without me," Decoud almost shouted. "You would have gone to the bottom with her." "Yes," uttered Nostromo, slowly; "alone." Here was a man, Decoud reflected, that seemed as though he would have preferred to die rather than deface the perfect form of his egoism. Such a man was safe. In silence he helped the Capataz to get the grapnel on board. Nostromo cleared the shelving shore with one push of the heavy oar, and Decoud found himself solitary on the beach like a man in a dream. A sudden desire to hear a human voice once more seized upon his heart. The lighter was hardly distinguishable from the black water upon which she floated. "What do you think has become of Hirsch?" he shouted. "Knocked overboard and drowned," cried Nostromo's voice confidently out of the black wastes of sky and sea around the islet. "Keep close in the ravine, senor. I shall try to come out to you in a night or two." A slight swishing rustle showed that Nostromo was setting the sail. It filled all at once with a sound as of a single loud drum-tap. Decoud went back to the ravine. Nostromo, at the tiller, looked back from time to time at the vanishing mass of the Great Isabel, which, little by little, merged into the uniform texture of the night. At last, when he turned his head again, he saw nothing but a smooth darkness, like a solid wall. Then he, too, experienced that feeling of solitude which had weighed heavily on Decoud after the lighter had slipped off the shore. But while the man on the island was oppressed by a bizarre sense of unreality affecting the very ground upon which he walked, the mind of the Capataz of the Cargadores turned alertly to the problem of future conduct. Nostromo's faculties, working on parallel lines, enabled him to steer straight, to keep a look-out for Hermosa, near which he had to pass, and to try to imagine what would happen tomorrow in Sulaco. To-morrow, or, as a matter of fact, to-day, since the dawn was not very far, Sotillo would find out in what way the treasure had gone. A gang of Cargadores had been employed in loading it into a railway truck from the Custom House store-rooms, and running the truck on to the wharf. There would be arrests made, and certainly before noon Sotillo would know in what manner the silver had left Sulaco, and who it was that took it out. Nostromo's intention had been to sail right into the harbour; but at this thought by a sudden touch of the tiller he threw the lighter into the wind and checked her rapid way. His re-appearance with the very boat would raise suspicions, would cause surmises, would absolutely put Sotillo on the track. He himself would be arrested; and once in the Calabozo there was no saying what they would do to him to make him speak. He trusted himself, but he stood up to look round. Near by, Hermosa showed low its white surface as flat as a table, with the slight run of the sea raised by the breeze washing over its edges noisily. The lighter must be sunk at once. He allowed her to drift with her sail aback. There was already a good deal of water in her. He allowed her to drift towards the harbour entrance, and, letting the tiller swing about, squatted down and busied himself in loosening the plug. With that out she would fill very quickly, and every lighter carried a little iron ballast--enough to make her go down when full of water. When he stood up again the noisy wash about the Hermosa sounded far away, almost inaudible; and already he could make out the shape of land about the harbour entrance. This was a desperate affair, and he was a good swimmer. A mile was nothing to him, and he knew of an easy place for landing just below the earthworks of the old abandoned fort. It occurred to him with a peculiar fascination that this fort was a good place in which to sleep the day through after so many sleepless nights. With one blow of the tiller he unshipped for the purpose, he knocked the plug out, but did not take the trouble to lower the sail. He felt the water welling up heavily about his legs before he leaped on to the taffrail. There, upright and motionless, in his shirt and trousers only, he stood waiting. When he had felt her settle he sprang far away with a mighty splash. At once he turned his head. The gloomy, clouded dawn from behind the mountains showed him on the smooth waters the upper corner of the sail, a dark wet triangle of canvas waving slightly to and fro. He saw it vanish, as if jerked under, and then struck out for the shore. PART THIRD THE LIGHTHOUSE CHAPTER ONE Directly the cargo boat had slipped away from the wharf and got lost in the darkness of the harbour the Europeans of Sulaco separated, to prepare for the coming of the Monterist regime, which was approaching Sulaco from the mountains, as well as from the sea. This bit of manual work in loading the silver was their last concerted action. It ended the three days of danger, during which, according to the newspaper press of Europe, their energy had preserved the town from the calamities of popular disorder. At the shore end of the jetty, Captain Mitchell said good-night and turned back. His intention was to walk the planks of the wharf till the steamer from Esmeralda turned up. The engineers of the railway staff, collecting their Basque and Italian workmen, marched them away to the railway yards, leaving the Custom House, so well defended on the first day of the riot, standing open to the four winds of heaven. Their men had conducted themselves bravely and faithfully during the famous "three days" of Sulaco. In a great part this faithfulness and that courage had been exercised in self-defence rather than in the cause of those material interests to which Charles Gould had pinned his faith. Amongst the cries of the mob not the least loud had been the cry of death to foreigners. It was, indeed, a lucky circumstance for Sulaco that the relations of those imported workmen with the people of the country had been uniformly bad from the first. Doctor Monygham, going to the door of Viola's kitchen, observed this retreat marking the end of the foreign interference, this withdrawal of the army of material progress from the field of Costaguana revolutions. Algarrobe torches carried on the outskirts of the moving body sent their penetrating aroma into his nostrils. Their light, sweeping along the front of the house, made the letters of the inscription, "Albergo d'ltalia Una," leap out black from end to end of the long wall. His eyes blinked in the clear blaze. Several young men, mostly fair and tall, shepherding this mob of dark bronzed heads, surmounted by the glint of slanting rifle barrels, nodded to him familiarly as they went by. The doctor was a well-known character. Some of them wondered what he was doing there. Then, on the flank of their workmen they tramped on, following the line of rails. "Withdrawing your people from the harbour?" said the doctor, addressing himself to the chief engineer of the railway, who had accompanied Charles Gould so far on his way to the town, walking by the side of the horse, with his hand on the saddle-bow. They had stopped just outside the open door to let the workmen cross the road. "As quick as I can. We are not a political faction," answered the engineer, meaningly. "And we are not going to give our new rulers a handle against the railway. You approve me, Gould?" "Absolutely," said Charles Gould's impassive voice, high up and outside the dim parallelogram of light falling on the road through the open door. With Sotillo expected from one side, and Pedro Montero from the other, the engineer-in-chief's only anxiety now was to avoid a collision with either. Sulaco, for him, was a railway station, a terminus, workshops, a great accumulation of stores. As against the mob the railway defended its property, but politically the railway was neutral. He was a brave man; and in that spirit of neutrality he had carried proposals of truce to the self-appointed chiefs of the popular party, the deputies Fuentes and Gamacho. Bullets were still flying about when he had crossed the Plaza on that mission, waving above his head a white napkin belonging to the table linen of the Amarilla Club. He was rather proud of this exploit; and reflecting that the doctor, busy all day with the wounded in the patio of the Casa Gould, had not had time to hear the news, he began a succinct narrative. He had communicated to them the intelligence from the Construction Camp as to Pedro Montero. The brother of the victorious general, he had assured them, could be expected at Sulaco at any time now. This news (as he anticipated), when shouted out of the window by Senor Gamacho, induced a rush of the mob along the Campo Road towards Rincon. The two deputies also, after shaking hands with him effusively, mounted and galloped off to meet the great man. "I have misled them a little as to the time," the chief engineer confessed. "However hard he rides, he can scarcely get here before the morning. But my object is attained. I've secured several hours' peace for the losing party. But I did not tell them anything about Sotillo, for fear they would take it into their heads to try to get hold of the harbour again, either to oppose him or welcome him--there's no saying which. There was Gould's silver, on which rests the remnant of our hopes. Decoud's retreat had to be thought of, too. I think the railway has done pretty well by its friends without compromising itself hopelessly. Now the parties must be left to themselves." "Costaguana for the Costaguaneros," interjected the doctor, sardonically. "It is a fine country, and they have raised a fine crop of hates, vengeance, murder, and rapine--those sons of the country." "Well, I am one of them," Charles Gould's voice sounded, calmly, "and I must be going on to see to my own crop of trouble. My wife has driven straight on, doctor?" "Yes. All was quiet on this side. Mrs. Gould has taken the two girls with her." Charles Gould rode on, and the engineer-in-chief followed the doctor indoors. "That man is calmness personified," he said, appreciatively, dropping on a bench, and stretching his well-shaped legs in cycling stockings nearly across the doorway. "He must be extremely sure of himself." "If that's all he is sure of, then he is sure of nothing," said the doctor. He had perched himself again on the end of the table. He nursed his cheek in the palm of one hand, while the other sustained the elbow. "It is the last thing a man ought to be sure of." The candle, half-consumed and burning dimly with a long wick, lighted up from below his inclined face, whose expression affected by the drawn-in cicatrices in the cheeks, had something vaguely unnatural, an exaggerated remorseful bitterness. As he sat there he had the air of meditating upon sinister things. The engineer-in-chief gazed at him for a time before he protested. "I really don't see that. For me there seems to be nothing else. However----" He was a wise man, but he could not quite conceal his contempt for that sort of paradox; in fact. Dr. Monygham was not liked by the Europeans of Sulaco. His outward aspect of an outcast, which he preserved even in Mrs. Gould's drawing-room, provoked unfavourable criticism. There could be no doubt of his intelligence; and as he had lived for over twenty years in the country, the pessimism of his outlook could not be altogether ignored. But instinctively, in self-defence of their activities and hopes, his hearers put it to the account of some hidden imperfection in the man's character. It was known that many years before, when quite young, he had been made by Guzman Bento chief medical officer of the army. Not one of the Europeans then in the service of Costaguana had been so much liked and trusted by the fierce old Dictator. Afterwards his story was not so clear. It lost itself amongst the innumerable tales of conspiracies and plots against the tyrant as a stream is lost in an arid belt of sandy country before it emerges, diminished and troubled, perhaps, on the other side. The doctor made no secret of it that he had lived for years in the wildest parts of the Republic, wandering with almost unknown Indian tribes in the great forests of the far interior where the great rivers have their sources. But it was mere aimless wandering; he had written nothing, collected nothing, brought nothing for science out of the twilight of the forests, which seemed to cling to his battered personality limping about Sulaco, where it had drifted in casually, only to get stranded on the shores of the sea. It was also known that he had lived in a state of destitution till the arrival of the Goulds from Europe. Don Carlos and Dona Emilia had taken up the mad English doctor, when it became apparent that for all his savage independence he could be tamed by kindness. Perhaps it was only hunger that had tamed him. In years gone by he had certainly been acquainted with Charles Gould's father in Sta. Marta; and now, no matter what were the dark passages of his history, as the medical officer of the San Tome mine he became a recognized personality. He was recognized, but not unreservedly accepted. So much defiant eccentricity and such an outspoken scorn for mankind seemed to point to mere recklessness of judgment, the bravado of guilt. Besides, since he had become again of some account, vague whispers had been heard that years ago, when fallen into disgrace and thrown into prison by Guzman Bento at the time of the so-called Great Conspiracy, he had betrayed some of his best friends amongst the conspirators. Nobody pretended to believe that whisper; the whole story of the Great Conspiracy was hopelessly involved and obscure; it is admitted in Costaguana that there never had been a conspiracy except in the diseased imagination of the Tyrant; and, therefore, nothing and no one to betray; though the most distinguished Costaguaneros had been imprisoned and executed upon that accusation. The procedure had dragged on for years, decimating the better class like a pestilence. The mere expression of sorrow for the fate of executed kinsmen had been punished with death. Don Jose Avellanos was perhaps the only one living who knew the whole story of those unspeakable cruelties. He had suffered from them himself, and he, with a shrug of the shoulders and a nervous, jerky gesture of the arm, was wont to put away from him, as it were, every allusion to it. But whatever the reason, Dr. Monygham, a personage in the administration of the Gould Concession, treated with reverent awe by the miners, and indulged in his peculiarities by Mrs. Gould, remained somehow outside the pale. It was not from any liking for the doctor that the engineer-in-chief had lingered in the inn upon the plain. He liked old Viola much better. He had come to look upon the Albergo d'ltalia Una as a dependence of the railway. Many of his subordinates had their quarters there. Mrs. Gould's interest in the family conferred upon it a sort of distinction. The engineer-in-chief, with an army of workers under his orders, appreciated the moral influence of the old Garibaldino upon his countrymen. His austere, old-world Republicanism had a severe, soldier-like standard of faithfulness and duty, as if the world were a battlefield where men had to fight for the sake of universal love and brotherhood, instead of a more or less large share of booty. "Poor old chap!" he said, after he had heard the doctor's account of Teresa. "He'll never be able to keep the place going by himself. I shall be sorry." "He's quite alone up there," grunted Doctor Monygham, with a toss of his heavy head towards the narrow staircase. "Every living soul has cleared out, and Mrs. Gould took the girls away just now. It might not be over-safe for them out here before very long. Of course, as a doctor I can do nothing more here; but she has asked me to stay with old Viola, and as I have no horse to get back to the mine, where I ought to be, I made no difficulty to stay. They can do without me in the town." "I have a good mind to remain with you, doctor, till we see whether anything happens to-night at the harbour," declared the engineer-in-chief. "He must not be molested by Sotillo's soldiery, who may push on as far as this at once. Sotillo used to be very cordial to me at the Goulds' and at the club. How that man'll ever dare to look any of his friends here in the face

sudden

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

was completely wet), disclosed to the toiling Decoud the eagerness of his face, bent low over the box of the compass, and the attentive stare of his eyes. He knew now where he was, and he hoped to run the sinking lighter ashore in the shallow cove where the high, cliff-like end of the Great Isabel is divided in two equal parts by a deep and overgrown ravine. Decoud pumped without intermission. Nostromo steered without relaxing for a second the intense, peering effort of his stare. Each of them was as if utterly alone with his task. It did not occur to them to speak. There was nothing in common between them but the knowledge that the damaged lighter must be slowly but surely sinking. In that knowledge, which was like the crucial test of their desires, they seemed to have become completely estranged, as if they had discovered in the very shock of the collision that the loss of the lighter would not mean the same thing to them both. This common danger brought their differences in aim, in view, in character, and in position, into absolute prominence in the private vision of each. There was no bond of conviction, of common idea; they were merely two adventurers pursuing each his own adventure, involved in the same imminence of deadly peril. Therefore they had nothing to say to each other. But this peril, this only incontrovertible truth in which they shared, seemed to act as an inspiration to their mental and bodily powers. There was certainly something almost miraculous in the way the Capataz made the cove with nothing but the shadowy hint of the island's shape and the vague gleam of a small sandy strip for a guide. Where the ravine opens between the cliffs, and a slender, shallow rivulet meanders out of the bushes to lose itself in the sea, the lighter was run ashore; and the two men, with a taciturn, undaunted energy, began to discharge her precious freight, carrying each ox-hide box up the bed of the rivulet beyond the bushes to a hollow place which the caving in of the soil had made below the roots of a large tree. Its big smooth trunk leaned like a falling column far over the trickle of water running amongst the loose stones. A couple of years before Nostromo had spent a whole Sunday, all alone, exploring the island. He explained this to Decoud after their task was done, and they sat, weary in every limb, with their legs hanging down the low bank, and their backs against the tree, like a pair of blind men aware of each other and their surroundings by some indefinable sixth sense. "Yes," Nostromo repeated, "I never forget a place I have carefully looked at once." He spoke slowly, almost lazily, as if there had been a whole leisurely life before him, instead of the scanty two hours before daylight. The existence of the treasure, barely concealed in this improbable spot, laid a burden of secrecy upon every contemplated step, upon every intention and plan of future conduct. He felt the partial failure of this desperate affair entrusted to the great reputation he had known how to make for himself. However, it was also a partial success. His vanity was half appeased. His nervous irritation had subsided. "You never know what may be of use," he pursued with his usual quietness of tone and manner. "I spent a whole miserable Sunday in exploring this crumb of land." "A misanthropic sort of occupation," muttered Decoud, viciously. "You had no money, I suppose, to gamble with, and to fling about amongst the girls in your usual haunts, Capataz." "_E vero!_" exclaimed the Capataz, surprised into the use of his native tongue by so much perspicacity. "I had not! Therefore I did not want to go amongst those beggarly people accustomed to my generosity. It is looked for from the Capataz of the Cargadores, who are the rich men, and, as it were, the Caballeros amongst the common people. I don't care for cards but as a pastime; and as to those girls that boast of having opened their doors to my knock, you know I wouldn't look at any one of them twice except for what the people would say. They are queer, the good people of Sulaco, and I have got much useful information simply by listening patiently to the talk of the women that everybody believed I was in love with. Poor Teresa could never understand that. On that particular Sunday, senor, she scolded so that I went out of the house swearing that I would never darken their door again unless to fetch away my hammock and my chest of clothes. Senor, there is nothing more exasperating than to hear a woman you respect rail against your good reputation when you have not a single brass coin in your pocket. I untied one of the small boats and pulled myself out of the harbour with nothing but three cigars in my pocket to help me spend the day on this island. But the water of this rivulet you hear under your feet is cool and sweet and good, senor, both before and after a smoke." He was silent for a while, then added reflectively, "That was the first Sunday after I brought down the white-whiskered English rico all the way down the mountains from the Paramo on the top of the Entrada Pass--and in the coach, too! No coach had gone up or down that mountain road within the memory of man, senor, till I brought this one down in charge of fifty peons working like one man with ropes, pickaxes, and poles under my direction. That was the rich Englishman who, as people say, pays for the making of this railway. He was very pleased with me. But my wages were not due till the end of the month." He slid down the bank suddenly. Decoud heard the splash of his feet in the brook and followed his footsteps down the ravine. His form was lost among the bushes till he had reached the strip of sand under the cliff. As often happens in the gulf when the showers during the first part of the night had been frequent and heavy, the darkness had thinned considerably towards the morning though there were no signs of daylight as yet. The cargo-lighter, relieved of its precious burden, rocked feebly, half-afloat, with her fore-foot on the sand. A long rope stretched away like a black cotton thread across the strip of white beach to the grapnel Nostromo had carried ashore and hooked to the stem of a tree-like shrub in the very opening of the ravine. There was nothing for Decoud but to remain on the island. He received from Nostromo's hands whatever food the foresight of Captain Mitchell had put on board the lighter and deposited it temporarily in the little dinghy which on their arrival they had hauled up out of sight amongst the bushes. It was to be left with him. The island was to be a hiding-place, not a prison; he could pull out to a passing ship. The O.S.N. Company's mail boats passed close to the islands when going into Sulaco from the north. But the Minerva, carrying off the ex-president, had taken the news up north of the disturbances in Sulaco. It was possible that the next steamer down would get instructions to miss the port altogether since the town, as far as the Minerva's officers knew, was for the time being in the hands of the rabble. This would mean that there would be no steamer for a month, as far as the mail service went; but Decoud had to take his chance of that. The island was his only shelter from the proscription hanging over his head. The Capataz was, of course, going back. The unloaded lighter leaked much less, and he thought that she would keep afloat as far as the harbour. He passed to Decoud, standing knee-deep alongside, one of the two spades which belonged to the equipment of each lighter for use when ballasting ships. By working with it carefully as soon as there was daylight enough to see, Decoud could loosen a mass of earth and stones overhanging the cavity in which they had deposited the treasure, so that it would look as if it had fallen naturally. It would cover up not only the cavity, but even all traces of their work, the footsteps, the displaced stones, and even the broken bushes. "Besides, who would think of looking either for you or the treasure here?" Nostromo continued, as if he could not tear himself away from the spot. "Nobody is ever likely to come here. What could any man want with this piece of earth as long as there is room for his feet on the mainland! The people in this country are not curious. There are even no fishermen here to intrude upon your worship. All the fishing that is done in the gulf goes on near Zapiga, over there. Senor, if you are forced to leave this island before anything can be arranged for you, do not try to make for Zapiga. It is a settlement of thieves and matreros, where they would cut your throat promptly for the sake of your gold watch and chain. And, senor, think twice before confiding in any one whatever; even in the officers of the Company's steamers, if you ever get on board one. Honesty alone is not enough for security. You must look to discretion and prudence in a man. And always remember, senor, before you open your lips for a confidence, that this treasure may be left safely here for hundreds of years. Time is on its side, senor. And silver is an incorruptible metal that can be trusted to keep its value for ever. . . . An incorruptible metal," he repeated, as if the idea had given him a profound pleasure. "As some men are said to be," Decoud pronounced, inscrutably, while the Capataz, who busied himself in baling out the lighter with a wooden bucket, went on throwing the water over the side with a regular splash. Decoud, incorrigible in his scepticism, reflected, not cynically, but with general satisfaction, that this man was made incorruptible by his enormous vanity, that finest form of egoism which can take on the aspect of every virtue. Nostromo ceased baling, and, as if struck with a sudden thought, dropped the bucket with a clatter into the lighter. "Have you any message?" he asked in a lowered voice. "Remember, I shall be asked questions." "You must find the hopeful words that ought to be spoken to the people in town. I trust for that your intelligence and your experience, Capataz. You understand?" "Si, senor. . . . For the ladies." "Yes, yes," said Decoud, hastily. "Your wonderful reputation will make them attach great value to your words; therefore be careful what you say. I am looking forward," he continued, feeling the fatal touch of contempt for himself to which his complex nature was subject, "I am looking forward to a glorious and successful ending to my mission. Do you hear, Capataz? Use the words glorious and successful when you speak to the senorita. Your own mission is accomplished gloriously and successfully. You have indubitably saved the silver of the mine. Not only this silver, but probably all the silver that shall ever come out of it." Nostromo detected the ironic tone. "I dare say, Senor Don Martin," he said, moodily. "There are very few things that I am not equal to. Ask the foreign signori. I, a man of the people, who cannot always understand what you mean. But as to this lot which I must leave here, let me tell you that I would believe it in greater safety if you had not been with me at all." An exclamation escaped Decoud, and a short pause followed. "Shall I go back with you to Sulaco?" he asked in an angry tone. "Shall I strike you dead with my knife where you stand?" retorted Nostromo, contemptuously. "It would be the same thing as taking you to Sulaco. Come, senor. Your reputation is in your politics, and mine is bound up with the fate of this silver. Do you wonder I wish there had been no other man to share my knowledge? I wanted no one with me, senor." "You could not have kept the lighter afloat without me," Decoud almost shouted. "You would have gone to the bottom with her." "Yes," uttered Nostromo, slowly; "alone." Here was a man, Decoud reflected, that seemed as though he would have preferred to die rather than deface the perfect form of his egoism. Such a man was safe. In silence he helped the Capataz to get the grapnel on board. Nostromo cleared the shelving shore with one push of the heavy oar, and Decoud found himself solitary on the beach like a man in a dream. A sudden desire to hear a human voice once more seized upon his heart. The lighter was hardly distinguishable from the black water upon which she floated. "What do you think has become of Hirsch?" he shouted. "Knocked overboard and drowned," cried Nostromo's voice confidently out of the black wastes of sky and sea around the islet. "Keep close in the ravine, senor. I shall try to come out to you in a night or two." A slight swishing rustle showed that Nostromo was setting the sail. It filled all at once with a sound as of a single loud drum-tap. Decoud went back to the ravine. Nostromo, at the tiller, looked back from time to time at the vanishing mass of the Great Isabel, which, little by little, merged into the uniform texture of the night. At last, when he turned his head again, he saw nothing but a smooth darkness, like a solid wall. Then he, too, experienced that feeling of solitude which had weighed heavily on Decoud after the lighter had slipped off the shore. But while the man on the island was oppressed by a bizarre sense of unreality affecting the very ground upon which he walked, the mind of the Capataz of the Cargadores turned alertly to the problem of future conduct. Nostromo's faculties, working on parallel lines, enabled him to steer straight, to keep a look-out for Hermosa, near which he had to pass, and to try to imagine what would happen tomorrow in Sulaco. To-morrow, or, as a matter of fact, to-day, since the dawn was not very far, Sotillo would find out in what way the treasure had gone. A gang of Cargadores had been employed in loading it into a railway truck from the Custom House store-rooms, and running the truck on to the wharf. There would be arrests made, and certainly before noon Sotillo would know in what manner the silver had left Sulaco, and who it was that took it out. Nostromo's intention had been to sail right into the harbour; but at this thought by a sudden touch of the tiller he threw the lighter into the wind and checked her rapid way. His re-appearance with the very boat would raise suspicions, would cause surmises, would absolutely put Sotillo on the track. He himself would be arrested; and once in the Calabozo there was no saying what they would do to him to make him speak. He trusted himself, but he stood up to look round. Near by, Hermosa showed low its white surface as flat as a table, with the slight run of the sea raised by the breeze washing over its edges noisily. The lighter must be sunk at once. He allowed her to drift with her sail aback. There was already a good deal of water in her. He allowed her to drift towards the harbour entrance, and, letting the tiller swing about, squatted down and busied himself in loosening the plug. With that out she would fill very quickly, and every lighter carried a little iron ballast--enough to make her go down when full of water. When he stood up again the noisy wash about the Hermosa sounded far away, almost inaudible; and already he could make out the shape of land about the harbour entrance. This was a desperate affair, and he was a good swimmer. A mile was nothing to him, and he knew of an easy place for landing just below the earthworks of the old abandoned fort. It occurred to him with a peculiar fascination that this fort was a good place in which to sleep the day through after so many sleepless nights. With one blow of the tiller he unshipped for the purpose, he knocked the plug out, but did not take the trouble to lower the sail. He felt the water welling up heavily about his legs before he leaped on to the taffrail. There, upright and motionless, in his shirt and trousers only, he stood waiting. When he had felt her settle he sprang far away with a mighty splash. At once he turned his head. The gloomy, clouded dawn from behind the mountains showed him on the smooth waters the upper corner of the sail, a dark wet triangle of canvas waving slightly to and fro. He saw it vanish, as if jerked under, and then struck out for the shore. PART THIRD THE LIGHTHOUSE CHAPTER ONE Directly the cargo boat had slipped away from the wharf and got lost in the darkness of the harbour the Europeans of Sulaco separated, to prepare for the coming of the Monterist regime, which was approaching Sulaco from the mountains, as well as from the sea. This bit of manual work in loading the silver was their last concerted action. It ended the three days of danger, during which, according to the newspaper press of Europe, their energy had preserved the town from the calamities of popular disorder. At the shore end of the jetty, Captain Mitchell said good-night and turned back. His intention was to walk the planks of the wharf till the steamer from Esmeralda turned up. The engineers of the railway staff, collecting their Basque and Italian workmen, marched them away to the railway yards, leaving the Custom House, so well defended on the first day of the riot, standing open to the four winds of heaven. Their men had conducted themselves bravely and faithfully during the famous "three days" of Sulaco. In a great part this faithfulness and that courage had been exercised in self-defence rather than in the cause of those material interests to which Charles Gould had pinned his faith. Amongst the cries of the mob not the least loud had been the cry of death to foreigners. It was, indeed, a lucky circumstance for Sulaco that the relations of those imported workmen with the people of the country had been uniformly bad from the first. Doctor Monygham, going to the door of Viola's kitchen, observed this retreat marking the end of the foreign interference, this withdrawal of the army of material progress from the field of Costaguana revolutions. Algarrobe torches carried on the outskirts of the moving body sent their penetrating aroma into his nostrils. Their light, sweeping along the front of the house, made the letters of the inscription, "Albergo d'ltalia Una," leap out black from end to end of the long wall. His eyes blinked in the clear blaze. Several young men, mostly fair and tall, shepherding this mob of dark bronzed heads, surmounted by the glint of slanting rifle barrels, nodded to him familiarly as they went by. The doctor was a well-known character. Some of them wondered what he was doing there. Then, on the flank of their workmen they tramped on, following the line of rails. "Withdrawing your people from the harbour?" said the doctor, addressing himself to the chief engineer of the railway, who had accompanied Charles Gould so far on his way to the town, walking by the side of the horse, with his hand on the saddle-bow. They had stopped just outside the open door to let the workmen cross the road. "As quick as I can. We are not a political faction," answered the engineer, meaningly. "And we are not going to give our new rulers a handle against the railway. You approve me, Gould?" "Absolutely," said Charles Gould's impassive voice, high up and outside the dim parallelogram of light falling on the road through the open door. With Sotillo expected from one side, and Pedro Montero from the other, the engineer-in-chief's only anxiety now was to avoid a collision with either. Sulaco, for him, was a railway station, a terminus, workshops, a great accumulation of stores. As against the mob the railway defended its property, but politically the railway was neutral. He was a brave man; and in that spirit of neutrality he had carried proposals of truce to the self-appointed chiefs of the popular party, the deputies Fuentes and Gamacho. Bullets were still flying about when he had crossed the Plaza on that mission, waving above his head a white napkin belonging to the table linen of the Amarilla Club. He was rather proud of this exploit; and reflecting that the doctor, busy all day with the wounded in the patio of the Casa Gould, had not had time to hear the news, he began a succinct narrative. He had communicated to them the intelligence from the Construction Camp as to Pedro Montero. The brother of the victorious general, he had assured them, could be expected at Sulaco at any time now. This news (as he anticipated), when shouted out of the window by Senor Gamacho, induced a rush of the mob along the Campo Road towards Rincon. The two deputies also, after shaking hands with him effusively, mounted and galloped off to meet the great man. "I have misled them a little as to the time," the chief engineer confessed. "However hard he rides, he can scarcely get here before the morning. But my object is attained. I've secured several hours' peace for the losing party. But I did not tell them anything about Sotillo, for fear they would take it into their heads to try to get hold of the harbour again, either to oppose him or welcome him--there's no saying which. There was Gould's silver, on which rests the remnant of our hopes. Decoud's retreat had to be thought of, too. I think the railway has done pretty well by its friends without compromising itself hopelessly. Now the parties must be left to themselves." "Costaguana for the Costaguaneros," interjected the doctor, sardonically. "It is a fine country, and they have raised a fine crop of hates, vengeance, murder, and rapine--those sons of the country." "Well, I am one of them," Charles Gould's voice sounded, calmly, "and I must be going on to see to my own crop of trouble. My wife has driven straight on, doctor?" "Yes. All was quiet on this side. Mrs. Gould has taken the two girls with her." Charles Gould rode on, and the engineer-in-chief followed the doctor indoors. "That man is calmness personified," he said, appreciatively, dropping on a bench, and stretching his well-shaped legs in cycling stockings nearly across the doorway. "He must be extremely sure of himself." "If that's all he is sure of, then he is sure of nothing," said the doctor. He had perched himself again on the end of the table. He nursed his cheek in the palm of one hand, while the other sustained the elbow. "It is the last thing a man ought to be sure of." The candle, half-consumed and burning dimly with a long wick, lighted up from below his inclined face, whose expression affected by the drawn-in cicatrices in the cheeks, had something vaguely unnatural, an exaggerated remorseful bitterness. As he sat there he had the air of meditating upon sinister things. The engineer-in-chief gazed at him for a time before he protested. "I really don't see that. For me there seems to be nothing else. However----" He was a wise man, but he could not quite conceal his contempt for that sort of paradox; in fact. Dr. Monygham was not liked by the Europeans of Sulaco. His outward aspect of an outcast, which he preserved even in Mrs. Gould's drawing-room, provoked unfavourable criticism. There could be no doubt of his intelligence; and as he had lived for over twenty years in the country, the pessimism of his outlook could not be altogether ignored. But instinctively, in self-defence of their activities and hopes, his hearers put it to the account of some hidden imperfection in the man's character. It was known that many years before, when quite young, he had been made by Guzman Bento chief medical officer of the army. Not one of the Europeans then in the service of Costaguana had been so much liked and trusted by the fierce old Dictator. Afterwards his story was not so clear. It lost itself amongst the innumerable tales of conspiracies and plots against the tyrant as a stream is lost in an arid belt of sandy country before it emerges, diminished and troubled, perhaps, on the other side. The doctor made no secret of it that he had lived for years in the wildest parts of the Republic, wandering with almost unknown Indian tribes in the great forests of the far interior where the great rivers have their sources. But it was mere aimless wandering; he had written nothing, collected nothing, brought nothing for science out of the twilight of the forests, which seemed to cling to his battered personality limping about Sulaco, where it had drifted in casually, only to get stranded on the shores of the sea. It was also known that he had lived in a state of destitution till the arrival of the Goulds from Europe. Don Carlos and Dona Emilia had taken up the mad English doctor, when it became apparent that for all his savage independence he could be tamed by kindness. Perhaps it was only hunger that had tamed him. In years gone by he had certainly been acquainted with Charles Gould's father in Sta. Marta; and now, no matter what were the dark passages of his history, as the medical officer of the San Tome mine he became a recognized personality. He was recognized, but not unreservedly accepted. So much defiant eccentricity and such an outspoken scorn for mankind seemed to point to mere recklessness of judgment, the bravado of guilt. Besides, since he had become again of some account, vague whispers had been heard that years ago, when fallen into disgrace and thrown into prison by Guzman Bento at the time of the so-called Great Conspiracy, he had betrayed some of his best friends amongst the conspirators. Nobody pretended to believe that whisper; the whole story of the Great Conspiracy was hopelessly involved and obscure; it is admitted in Costaguana that there never had been a conspiracy except in the diseased imagination of the Tyrant; and, therefore, nothing and no one to betray; though the most distinguished Costaguaneros had been imprisoned and executed upon that accusation. The procedure had dragged on for years, decimating the better class like a pestilence. The mere expression of sorrow for the fate of executed kinsmen had been punished with death. Don Jose Avellanos was perhaps the only one living who knew the whole story of those unspeakable cruelties. He had suffered from them himself, and he, with a shrug of the shoulders and a nervous, jerky gesture of the arm, was wont to put away from him, as it were, every allusion to it. But whatever the reason, Dr. Monygham, a personage in the administration of the Gould Concession, treated with reverent awe by the miners, and indulged in his peculiarities by Mrs. Gould, remained somehow outside the pale. It was not from any liking for the doctor that the engineer-in-chief had lingered in the inn upon the plain. He liked old Viola much better. He had come to look upon the Albergo d'ltalia Una as a dependence of the railway. Many of his subordinates had their quarters there. Mrs. Gould's interest in the family conferred upon it a sort of distinction. The engineer-in-chief, with an army of workers under his orders, appreciated the moral influence of the old Garibaldino upon his countrymen. His austere, old-world Republicanism had a severe, soldier-like standard of faithfulness and duty, as if the world were a battlefield where men had to fight for the sake of universal love and brotherhood, instead of a more or less large share of booty. "Poor old chap!" he said, after he had heard the doctor's account of Teresa. "He'll never be able to keep the place going by himself. I shall be sorry." "He's quite alone up there," grunted Doctor Monygham, with a toss of his heavy head towards the narrow staircase. "Every living soul has cleared out, and Mrs. Gould took the girls away just now. It might not be over-safe for them out here before very long. Of course, as a doctor I can do nothing more here; but she has asked me to stay with old Viola, and as I have no horse to get back to the mine, where I ought to be, I made no difficulty to stay. They can do without me in the town." "I have a good mind to remain with you, doctor, till we see whether anything happens to-night at the harbour," declared the engineer-in-chief. "He must not be molested by Sotillo's soldiery, who may push on as far as this at once. Sotillo used to be very cordial to me at the Goulds' and at the club. How that man'll ever dare to look any of his friends here in the face

considerably

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

was completely wet), disclosed to the toiling Decoud the eagerness of his face, bent low over the box of the compass, and the attentive stare of his eyes. He knew now where he was, and he hoped to run the sinking lighter ashore in the shallow cove where the high, cliff-like end of the Great Isabel is divided in two equal parts by a deep and overgrown ravine. Decoud pumped without intermission. Nostromo steered without relaxing for a second the intense, peering effort of his stare. Each of them was as if utterly alone with his task. It did not occur to them to speak. There was nothing in common between them but the knowledge that the damaged lighter must be slowly but surely sinking. In that knowledge, which was like the crucial test of their desires, they seemed to have become completely estranged, as if they had discovered in the very shock of the collision that the loss of the lighter would not mean the same thing to them both. This common danger brought their differences in aim, in view, in character, and in position, into absolute prominence in the private vision of each. There was no bond of conviction, of common idea; they were merely two adventurers pursuing each his own adventure, involved in the same imminence of deadly peril. Therefore they had nothing to say to each other. But this peril, this only incontrovertible truth in which they shared, seemed to act as an inspiration to their mental and bodily powers. There was certainly something almost miraculous in the way the Capataz made the cove with nothing but the shadowy hint of the island's shape and the vague gleam of a small sandy strip for a guide. Where the ravine opens between the cliffs, and a slender, shallow rivulet meanders out of the bushes to lose itself in the sea, the lighter was run ashore; and the two men, with a taciturn, undaunted energy, began to discharge her precious freight, carrying each ox-hide box up the bed of the rivulet beyond the bushes to a hollow place which the caving in of the soil had made below the roots of a large tree. Its big smooth trunk leaned like a falling column far over the trickle of water running amongst the loose stones. A couple of years before Nostromo had spent a whole Sunday, all alone, exploring the island. He explained this to Decoud after their task was done, and they sat, weary in every limb, with their legs hanging down the low bank, and their backs against the tree, like a pair of blind men aware of each other and their surroundings by some indefinable sixth sense. "Yes," Nostromo repeated, "I never forget a place I have carefully looked at once." He spoke slowly, almost lazily, as if there had been a whole leisurely life before him, instead of the scanty two hours before daylight. The existence of the treasure, barely concealed in this improbable spot, laid a burden of secrecy upon every contemplated step, upon every intention and plan of future conduct. He felt the partial failure of this desperate affair entrusted to the great reputation he had known how to make for himself. However, it was also a partial success. His vanity was half appeased. His nervous irritation had subsided. "You never know what may be of use," he pursued with his usual quietness of tone and manner. "I spent a whole miserable Sunday in exploring this crumb of land." "A misanthropic sort of occupation," muttered Decoud, viciously. "You had no money, I suppose, to gamble with, and to fling about amongst the girls in your usual haunts, Capataz." "_E vero!_" exclaimed the Capataz, surprised into the use of his native tongue by so much perspicacity. "I had not! Therefore I did not want to go amongst those beggarly people accustomed to my generosity. It is looked for from the Capataz of the Cargadores, who are the rich men, and, as it were, the Caballeros amongst the common people. I don't care for cards but as a pastime; and as to those girls that boast of having opened their doors to my knock, you know I wouldn't look at any one of them twice except for what the people would say. They are queer, the good people of Sulaco, and I have got much useful information simply by listening patiently to the talk of the women that everybody believed I was in love with. Poor Teresa could never understand that. On that particular Sunday, senor, she scolded so that I went out of the house swearing that I would never darken their door again unless to fetch away my hammock and my chest of clothes. Senor, there is nothing more exasperating than to hear a woman you respect rail against your good reputation when you have not a single brass coin in your pocket. I untied one of the small boats and pulled myself out of the harbour with nothing but three cigars in my pocket to help me spend the day on this island. But the water of this rivulet you hear under your feet is cool and sweet and good, senor, both before and after a smoke." He was silent for a while, then added reflectively, "That was the first Sunday after I brought down the white-whiskered English rico all the way down the mountains from the Paramo on the top of the Entrada Pass--and in the coach, too! No coach had gone up or down that mountain road within the memory of man, senor, till I brought this one down in charge of fifty peons working like one man with ropes, pickaxes, and poles under my direction. That was the rich Englishman who, as people say, pays for the making of this railway. He was very pleased with me. But my wages were not due till the end of the month." He slid down the bank suddenly. Decoud heard the splash of his feet in the brook and followed his footsteps down the ravine. His form was lost among the bushes till he had reached the strip of sand under the cliff. As often happens in the gulf when the showers during the first part of the night had been frequent and heavy, the darkness had thinned considerably towards the morning though there were no signs of daylight as yet. The cargo-lighter, relieved of its precious burden, rocked feebly, half-afloat, with her fore-foot on the sand. A long rope stretched away like a black cotton thread across the strip of white beach to the grapnel Nostromo had carried ashore and hooked to the stem of a tree-like shrub in the very opening of the ravine. There was nothing for Decoud but to remain on the island. He received from Nostromo's hands whatever food the foresight of Captain Mitchell had put on board the lighter and deposited it temporarily in the little dinghy which on their arrival they had hauled up out of sight amongst the bushes. It was to be left with him. The island was to be a hiding-place, not a prison; he could pull out to a passing ship. The O.S.N. Company's mail boats passed close to the islands when going into Sulaco from the north. But the Minerva, carrying off the ex-president, had taken the news up north of the disturbances in Sulaco. It was possible that the next steamer down would get instructions to miss the port altogether since the town, as far as the Minerva's officers knew, was for the time being in the hands of the rabble. This would mean that there would be no steamer for a month, as far as the mail service went; but Decoud had to take his chance of that. The island was his only shelter from the proscription hanging over his head. The Capataz was, of course, going back. The unloaded lighter leaked much less, and he thought that she would keep afloat as far as the harbour. He passed to Decoud, standing knee-deep alongside, one of the two spades which belonged to the equipment of each lighter for use when ballasting ships. By working with it carefully as soon as there was daylight enough to see, Decoud could loosen a mass of earth and stones overhanging the cavity in which they had deposited the treasure, so that it would look as if it had fallen naturally. It would cover up not only the cavity, but even all traces of their work, the footsteps, the displaced stones, and even the broken bushes. "Besides, who would think of looking either for you or the treasure here?" Nostromo continued, as if he could not tear himself away from the spot. "Nobody is ever likely to come here. What could any man want with this piece of earth as long as there is room for his feet on the mainland! The people in this country are not curious. There are even no fishermen here to intrude upon your worship. All the fishing that is done in the gulf goes on near Zapiga, over there. Senor, if you are forced to leave this island before anything can be arranged for you, do not try to make for Zapiga. It is a settlement of thieves and matreros, where they would cut your throat promptly for the sake of your gold watch and chain. And, senor, think twice before confiding in any one whatever; even in the officers of the Company's steamers, if you ever get on board one. Honesty alone is not enough for security. You must look to discretion and prudence in a man. And always remember, senor, before you open your lips for a confidence, that this treasure may be left safely here for hundreds of years. Time is on its side, senor. And silver is an incorruptible metal that can be trusted to keep its value for ever. . . . An incorruptible metal," he repeated, as if the idea had given him a profound pleasure. "As some men are said to be," Decoud pronounced, inscrutably, while the Capataz, who busied himself in baling out the lighter with a wooden bucket, went on throwing the water over the side with a regular splash. Decoud, incorrigible in his scepticism, reflected, not cynically, but with general satisfaction, that this man was made incorruptible by his enormous vanity, that finest form of egoism which can take on the aspect of every virtue. Nostromo ceased baling, and, as if struck with a sudden thought, dropped the bucket with a clatter into the lighter. "Have you any message?" he asked in a lowered voice. "Remember, I shall be asked questions." "You must find the hopeful words that ought to be spoken to the people in town. I trust for that your intelligence and your experience, Capataz. You understand?" "Si, senor. . . . For the ladies." "Yes, yes," said Decoud, hastily. "Your wonderful reputation will make them attach great value to your words; therefore be careful what you say. I am looking forward," he continued, feeling the fatal touch of contempt for himself to which his complex nature was subject, "I am looking forward to a glorious and successful ending to my mission. Do you hear, Capataz? Use the words glorious and successful when you speak to the senorita. Your own mission is accomplished gloriously and successfully. You have indubitably saved the silver of the mine. Not only this silver, but probably all the silver that shall ever come out of it." Nostromo detected the ironic tone. "I dare say, Senor Don Martin," he said, moodily. "There are very few things that I am not equal to. Ask the foreign signori. I, a man of the people, who cannot always understand what you mean. But as to this lot which I must leave here, let me tell you that I would believe it in greater safety if you had not been with me at all." An exclamation escaped Decoud, and a short pause followed. "Shall I go back with you to Sulaco?" he asked in an angry tone. "Shall I strike you dead with my knife where you stand?" retorted Nostromo, contemptuously. "It would be the same thing as taking you to Sulaco. Come, senor. Your reputation is in your politics, and mine is bound up with the fate of this silver. Do you wonder I wish there had been no other man to share my knowledge? I wanted no one with me, senor." "You could not have kept the lighter afloat without me," Decoud almost shouted. "You would have gone to the bottom with her." "Yes," uttered Nostromo, slowly; "alone." Here was a man, Decoud reflected, that seemed as though he would have preferred to die rather than deface the perfect form of his egoism. Such a man was safe. In silence he helped the Capataz to get the grapnel on board. Nostromo cleared the shelving shore with one push of the heavy oar, and Decoud found himself solitary on the beach like a man in a dream. A sudden desire to hear a human voice once more seized upon his heart. The lighter was hardly distinguishable from the black water upon which she floated. "What do you think has become of Hirsch?" he shouted. "Knocked overboard and drowned," cried Nostromo's voice confidently out of the black wastes of sky and sea around the islet. "Keep close in the ravine, senor. I shall try to come out to you in a night or two." A slight swishing rustle showed that Nostromo was setting the sail. It filled all at once with a sound as of a single loud drum-tap. Decoud went back to the ravine. Nostromo, at the tiller, looked back from time to time at the vanishing mass of the Great Isabel, which, little by little, merged into the uniform texture of the night. At last, when he turned his head again, he saw nothing but a smooth darkness, like a solid wall. Then he, too, experienced that feeling of solitude which had weighed heavily on Decoud after the lighter had slipped off the shore. But while the man on the island was oppressed by a bizarre sense of unreality affecting the very ground upon which he walked, the mind of the Capataz of the Cargadores turned alertly to the problem of future conduct. Nostromo's faculties, working on parallel lines, enabled him to steer straight, to keep a look-out for Hermosa, near which he had to pass, and to try to imagine what would happen tomorrow in Sulaco. To-morrow, or, as a matter of fact, to-day, since the dawn was not very far, Sotillo would find out in what way the treasure had gone. A gang of Cargadores had been employed in loading it into a railway truck from the Custom House store-rooms, and running the truck on to the wharf. There would be arrests made, and certainly before noon Sotillo would know in what manner the silver had left Sulaco, and who it was that took it out. Nostromo's intention had been to sail right into the harbour; but at this thought by a sudden touch of the tiller he threw the lighter into the wind and checked her rapid way. His re-appearance with the very boat would raise suspicions, would cause surmises, would absolutely put Sotillo on the track. He himself would be arrested; and once in the Calabozo there was no saying what they would do to him to make him speak. He trusted himself, but he stood up to look round. Near by, Hermosa showed low its white surface as flat as a table, with the slight run of the sea raised by the breeze washing over its edges noisily. The lighter must be sunk at once. He allowed her to drift with her sail aback. There was already a good deal of water in her. He allowed her to drift towards the harbour entrance, and, letting the tiller swing about, squatted down and busied himself in loosening the plug. With that out she would fill very quickly, and every lighter carried a little iron ballast--enough to make her go down when full of water. When he stood up again the noisy wash about the Hermosa sounded far away, almost inaudible; and already he could make out the shape of land about the harbour entrance. This was a desperate affair, and he was a good swimmer. A mile was nothing to him, and he knew of an easy place for landing just below the earthworks of the old abandoned fort. It occurred to him with a peculiar fascination that this fort was a good place in which to sleep the day through after so many sleepless nights. With one blow of the tiller he unshipped for the purpose, he knocked the plug out, but did not take the trouble to lower the sail. He felt the water welling up heavily about his legs before he leaped on to the taffrail. There, upright and motionless, in his shirt and trousers only, he stood waiting. When he had felt her settle he sprang far away with a mighty splash. At once he turned his head. The gloomy, clouded dawn from behind the mountains showed him on the smooth waters the upper corner of the sail, a dark wet triangle of canvas waving slightly to and fro. He saw it vanish, as if jerked under, and then struck out for the shore. PART THIRD THE LIGHTHOUSE CHAPTER ONE Directly the cargo boat had slipped away from the wharf and got lost in the darkness of the harbour the Europeans of Sulaco separated, to prepare for the coming of the Monterist regime, which was approaching Sulaco from the mountains, as well as from the sea. This bit of manual work in loading the silver was their last concerted action. It ended the three days of danger, during which, according to the newspaper press of Europe, their energy had preserved the town from the calamities of popular disorder. At the shore end of the jetty, Captain Mitchell said good-night and turned back. His intention was to walk the planks of the wharf till the steamer from Esmeralda turned up. The engineers of the railway staff, collecting their Basque and Italian workmen, marched them away to the railway yards, leaving the Custom House, so well defended on the first day of the riot, standing open to the four winds of heaven. Their men had conducted themselves bravely and faithfully during the famous "three days" of Sulaco. In a great part this faithfulness and that courage had been exercised in self-defence rather than in the cause of those material interests to which Charles Gould had pinned his faith. Amongst the cries of the mob not the least loud had been the cry of death to foreigners. It was, indeed, a lucky circumstance for Sulaco that the relations of those imported workmen with the people of the country had been uniformly bad from the first. Doctor Monygham, going to the door of Viola's kitchen, observed this retreat marking the end of the foreign interference, this withdrawal of the army of material progress from the field of Costaguana revolutions. Algarrobe torches carried on the outskirts of the moving body sent their penetrating aroma into his nostrils. Their light, sweeping along the front of the house, made the letters of the inscription, "Albergo d'ltalia Una," leap out black from end to end of the long wall. His eyes blinked in the clear blaze. Several young men, mostly fair and tall, shepherding this mob of dark bronzed heads, surmounted by the glint of slanting rifle barrels, nodded to him familiarly as they went by. The doctor was a well-known character. Some of them wondered what he was doing there. Then, on the flank of their workmen they tramped on, following the line of rails. "Withdrawing your people from the harbour?" said the doctor, addressing himself to the chief engineer of the railway, who had accompanied Charles Gould so far on his way to the town, walking by the side of the horse, with his hand on the saddle-bow. They had stopped just outside the open door to let the workmen cross the road. "As quick as I can. We are not a political faction," answered the engineer, meaningly. "And we are not going to give our new rulers a handle against the railway. You approve me, Gould?" "Absolutely," said Charles Gould's impassive voice, high up and outside the dim parallelogram of light falling on the road through the open door. With Sotillo expected from one side, and Pedro Montero from the other, the engineer-in-chief's only anxiety now was to avoid a collision with either. Sulaco, for him, was a railway station, a terminus, workshops, a great accumulation of stores. As against the mob the railway defended its property, but politically the railway was neutral. He was a brave man; and in that spirit of neutrality he had carried proposals of truce to the self-appointed chiefs of the popular party, the deputies Fuentes and Gamacho. Bullets were still flying about when he had crossed the Plaza on that mission, waving above his head a white napkin belonging to the table linen of the Amarilla Club. He was rather proud of this exploit; and reflecting that the doctor, busy all day with the wounded in the patio of the Casa Gould, had not had time to hear the news, he began a succinct narrative. He had communicated to them the intelligence from the Construction Camp as to Pedro Montero. The brother of the victorious general, he had assured them, could be expected at Sulaco at any time now. This news (as he anticipated), when shouted out of the window by Senor Gamacho, induced a rush of the mob along the Campo Road towards Rincon. The two deputies also, after shaking hands with him effusively, mounted and galloped off to meet the great man. "I have misled them a little as to the time," the chief engineer confessed. "However hard he rides, he can scarcely get here before the morning. But my object is attained. I've secured several hours' peace for the losing party. But I did not tell them anything about Sotillo, for fear they would take it into their heads to try to get hold of the harbour again, either to oppose him or welcome him--there's no saying which. There was Gould's silver, on which rests the remnant of our hopes. Decoud's retreat had to be thought of, too. I think the railway has done pretty well by its friends without compromising itself hopelessly. Now the parties must be left to themselves." "Costaguana for the Costaguaneros," interjected the doctor, sardonically. "It is a fine country, and they have raised a fine crop of hates, vengeance, murder, and rapine--those sons of the country." "Well, I am one of them," Charles Gould's voice sounded, calmly, "and I must be going on to see to my own crop of trouble. My wife has driven straight on, doctor?" "Yes. All was quiet on this side. Mrs. Gould has taken the two girls with her." Charles Gould rode on, and the engineer-in-chief followed the doctor indoors. "That man is calmness personified," he said, appreciatively, dropping on a bench, and stretching his well-shaped legs in cycling stockings nearly across the doorway. "He must be extremely sure of himself." "If that's all he is sure of, then he is sure of nothing," said the doctor. He had perched himself again on the end of the table. He nursed his cheek in the palm of one hand, while the other sustained the elbow. "It is the last thing a man ought to be sure of." The candle, half-consumed and burning dimly with a long wick, lighted up from below his inclined face, whose expression affected by the drawn-in cicatrices in the cheeks, had something vaguely unnatural, an exaggerated remorseful bitterness. As he sat there he had the air of meditating upon sinister things. The engineer-in-chief gazed at him for a time before he protested. "I really don't see that. For me there seems to be nothing else. However----" He was a wise man, but he could not quite conceal his contempt for that sort of paradox; in fact. Dr. Monygham was not liked by the Europeans of Sulaco. His outward aspect of an outcast, which he preserved even in Mrs. Gould's drawing-room, provoked unfavourable criticism. There could be no doubt of his intelligence; and as he had lived for over twenty years in the country, the pessimism of his outlook could not be altogether ignored. But instinctively, in self-defence of their activities and hopes, his hearers put it to the account of some hidden imperfection in the man's character. It was known that many years before, when quite young, he had been made by Guzman Bento chief medical officer of the army. Not one of the Europeans then in the service of Costaguana had been so much liked and trusted by the fierce old Dictator. Afterwards his story was not so clear. It lost itself amongst the innumerable tales of conspiracies and plots against the tyrant as a stream is lost in an arid belt of sandy country before it emerges, diminished and troubled, perhaps, on the other side. The doctor made no secret of it that he had lived for years in the wildest parts of the Republic, wandering with almost unknown Indian tribes in the great forests of the far interior where the great rivers have their sources. But it was mere aimless wandering; he had written nothing, collected nothing, brought nothing for science out of the twilight of the forests, which seemed to cling to his battered personality limping about Sulaco, where it had drifted in casually, only to get stranded on the shores of the sea. It was also known that he had lived in a state of destitution till the arrival of the Goulds from Europe. Don Carlos and Dona Emilia had taken up the mad English doctor, when it became apparent that for all his savage independence he could be tamed by kindness. Perhaps it was only hunger that had tamed him. In years gone by he had certainly been acquainted with Charles Gould's father in Sta. Marta; and now, no matter what were the dark passages of his history, as the medical officer of the San Tome mine he became a recognized personality. He was recognized, but not unreservedly accepted. So much defiant eccentricity and such an outspoken scorn for mankind seemed to point to mere recklessness of judgment, the bravado of guilt. Besides, since he had become again of some account, vague whispers had been heard that years ago, when fallen into disgrace and thrown into prison by Guzman Bento at the time of the so-called Great Conspiracy, he had betrayed some of his best friends amongst the conspirators. Nobody pretended to believe that whisper; the whole story of the Great Conspiracy was hopelessly involved and obscure; it is admitted in Costaguana that there never had been a conspiracy except in the diseased imagination of the Tyrant; and, therefore, nothing and no one to betray; though the most distinguished Costaguaneros had been imprisoned and executed upon that accusation. The procedure had dragged on for years, decimating the better class like a pestilence. The mere expression of sorrow for the fate of executed kinsmen had been punished with death. Don Jose Avellanos was perhaps the only one living who knew the whole story of those unspeakable cruelties. He had suffered from them himself, and he, with a shrug of the shoulders and a nervous, jerky gesture of the arm, was wont to put away from him, as it were, every allusion to it. But whatever the reason, Dr. Monygham, a personage in the administration of the Gould Concession, treated with reverent awe by the miners, and indulged in his peculiarities by Mrs. Gould, remained somehow outside the pale. It was not from any liking for the doctor that the engineer-in-chief had lingered in the inn upon the plain. He liked old Viola much better. He had come to look upon the Albergo d'ltalia Una as a dependence of the railway. Many of his subordinates had their quarters there. Mrs. Gould's interest in the family conferred upon it a sort of distinction. The engineer-in-chief, with an army of workers under his orders, appreciated the moral influence of the old Garibaldino upon his countrymen. His austere, old-world Republicanism had a severe, soldier-like standard of faithfulness and duty, as if the world were a battlefield where men had to fight for the sake of universal love and brotherhood, instead of a more or less large share of booty. "Poor old chap!" he said, after he had heard the doctor's account of Teresa. "He'll never be able to keep the place going by himself. I shall be sorry." "He's quite alone up there," grunted Doctor Monygham, with a toss of his heavy head towards the narrow staircase. "Every living soul has cleared out, and Mrs. Gould took the girls away just now. It might not be over-safe for them out here before very long. Of course, as a doctor I can do nothing more here; but she has asked me to stay with old Viola, and as I have no horse to get back to the mine, where I ought to be, I made no difficulty to stay. They can do without me in the town." "I have a good mind to remain with you, doctor, till we see whether anything happens to-night at the harbour," declared the engineer-in-chief. "He must not be molested by Sotillo's soldiery, who may push on as far as this at once. Sotillo used to be very cordial to me at the Goulds' and at the club. How that man'll ever dare to look any of his friends here in the face

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

was completely wet), disclosed to the toiling Decoud the eagerness of his face, bent low over the box of the compass, and the attentive stare of his eyes. He knew now where he was, and he hoped to run the sinking lighter ashore in the shallow cove where the high, cliff-like end of the Great Isabel is divided in two equal parts by a deep and overgrown ravine. Decoud pumped without intermission. Nostromo steered without relaxing for a second the intense, peering effort of his stare. Each of them was as if utterly alone with his task. It did not occur to them to speak. There was nothing in common between them but the knowledge that the damaged lighter must be slowly but surely sinking. In that knowledge, which was like the crucial test of their desires, they seemed to have become completely estranged, as if they had discovered in the very shock of the collision that the loss of the lighter would not mean the same thing to them both. This common danger brought their differences in aim, in view, in character, and in position, into absolute prominence in the private vision of each. There was no bond of conviction, of common idea; they were merely two adventurers pursuing each his own adventure, involved in the same imminence of deadly peril. Therefore they had nothing to say to each other. But this peril, this only incontrovertible truth in which they shared, seemed to act as an inspiration to their mental and bodily powers. There was certainly something almost miraculous in the way the Capataz made the cove with nothing but the shadowy hint of the island's shape and the vague gleam of a small sandy strip for a guide. Where the ravine opens between the cliffs, and a slender, shallow rivulet meanders out of the bushes to lose itself in the sea, the lighter was run ashore; and the two men, with a taciturn, undaunted energy, began to discharge her precious freight, carrying each ox-hide box up the bed of the rivulet beyond the bushes to a hollow place which the caving in of the soil had made below the roots of a large tree. Its big smooth trunk leaned like a falling column far over the trickle of water running amongst the loose stones. A couple of years before Nostromo had spent a whole Sunday, all alone, exploring the island. He explained this to Decoud after their task was done, and they sat, weary in every limb, with their legs hanging down the low bank, and their backs against the tree, like a pair of blind men aware of each other and their surroundings by some indefinable sixth sense. "Yes," Nostromo repeated, "I never forget a place I have carefully looked at once." He spoke slowly, almost lazily, as if there had been a whole leisurely life before him, instead of the scanty two hours before daylight. The existence of the treasure, barely concealed in this improbable spot, laid a burden of secrecy upon every contemplated step, upon every intention and plan of future conduct. He felt the partial failure of this desperate affair entrusted to the great reputation he had known how to make for himself. However, it was also a partial success. His vanity was half appeased. His nervous irritation had subsided. "You never know what may be of use," he pursued with his usual quietness of tone and manner. "I spent a whole miserable Sunday in exploring this crumb of land." "A misanthropic sort of occupation," muttered Decoud, viciously. "You had no money, I suppose, to gamble with, and to fling about amongst the girls in your usual haunts, Capataz." "_E vero!_" exclaimed the Capataz, surprised into the use of his native tongue by so much perspicacity. "I had not! Therefore I did not want to go amongst those beggarly people accustomed to my generosity. It is looked for from the Capataz of the Cargadores, who are the rich men, and, as it were, the Caballeros amongst the common people. I don't care for cards but as a pastime; and as to those girls that boast of having opened their doors to my knock, you know I wouldn't look at any one of them twice except for what the people would say. They are queer, the good people of Sulaco, and I have got much useful information simply by listening patiently to the talk of the women that everybody believed I was in love with. Poor Teresa could never understand that. On that particular Sunday, senor, she scolded so that I went out of the house swearing that I would never darken their door again unless to fetch away my hammock and my chest of clothes. Senor, there is nothing more exasperating than to hear a woman you respect rail against your good reputation when you have not a single brass coin in your pocket. I untied one of the small boats and pulled myself out of the harbour with nothing but three cigars in my pocket to help me spend the day on this island. But the water of this rivulet you hear under your feet is cool and sweet and good, senor, both before and after a smoke." He was silent for a while, then added reflectively, "That was the first Sunday after I brought down the white-whiskered English rico all the way down the mountains from the Paramo on the top of the Entrada Pass--and in the coach, too! No coach had gone up or down that mountain road within the memory of man, senor, till I brought this one down in charge of fifty peons working like one man with ropes, pickaxes, and poles under my direction. That was the rich Englishman who, as people say, pays for the making of this railway. He was very pleased with me. But my wages were not due till the end of the month." He slid down the bank suddenly. Decoud heard the splash of his feet in the brook and followed his footsteps down the ravine. His form was lost among the bushes till he had reached the strip of sand under the cliff. As often happens in the gulf when the showers during the first part of the night had been frequent and heavy, the darkness had thinned considerably towards the morning though there were no signs of daylight as yet. The cargo-lighter, relieved of its precious burden, rocked feebly, half-afloat, with her fore-foot on the sand. A long rope stretched away like a black cotton thread across the strip of white beach to the grapnel Nostromo had carried ashore and hooked to the stem of a tree-like shrub in the very opening of the ravine. There was nothing for Decoud but to remain on the island. He received from Nostromo's hands whatever food the foresight of Captain Mitchell had put on board the lighter and deposited it temporarily in the little dinghy which on their arrival they had hauled up out of sight amongst the bushes. It was to be left with him. The island was to be a hiding-place, not a prison; he could pull out to a passing ship. The O.S.N. Company's mail boats passed close to the islands when going into Sulaco from the north. But the Minerva, carrying off the ex-president, had taken the news up north of the disturbances in Sulaco. It was possible that the next steamer down would get instructions to miss the port altogether since the town, as far as the Minerva's officers knew, was for the time being in the hands of the rabble. This would mean that there would be no steamer for a month, as far as the mail service went; but Decoud had to take his chance of that. The island was his only shelter from the proscription hanging over his head. The Capataz was, of course, going back. The unloaded lighter leaked much less, and he thought that she would keep afloat as far as the harbour. He passed to Decoud, standing knee-deep alongside, one of the two spades which belonged to the equipment of each lighter for use when ballasting ships. By working with it carefully as soon as there was daylight enough to see, Decoud could loosen a mass of earth and stones overhanging the cavity in which they had deposited the treasure, so that it would look as if it had fallen naturally. It would cover up not only the cavity, but even all traces of their work, the footsteps, the displaced stones, and even the broken bushes. "Besides, who would think of looking either for you or the treasure here?" Nostromo continued, as if he could not tear himself away from the spot. "Nobody is ever likely to come here. What could any man want with this piece of earth as long as there is room for his feet on the mainland! The people in this country are not curious. There are even no fishermen here to intrude upon your worship. All the fishing that is done in the gulf goes on near Zapiga, over there. Senor, if you are forced to leave this island before anything can be arranged for you, do not try to make for Zapiga. It is a settlement of thieves and matreros, where they would cut your throat promptly for the sake of your gold watch and chain. And, senor, think twice before confiding in any one whatever; even in the officers of the Company's steamers, if you ever get on board one. Honesty alone is not enough for security. You must look to discretion and prudence in a man. And always remember, senor, before you open your lips for a confidence, that this treasure may be left safely here for hundreds of years. Time is on its side, senor. And silver is an incorruptible metal that can be trusted to keep its value for ever. . . . An incorruptible metal," he repeated, as if the idea had given him a profound pleasure. "As some men are said to be," Decoud pronounced, inscrutably, while the Capataz, who busied himself in baling out the lighter with a wooden bucket, went on throwing the water over the side with a regular splash. Decoud, incorrigible in his scepticism, reflected, not cynically, but with general satisfaction, that this man was made incorruptible by his enormous vanity, that finest form of egoism which can take on the aspect of every virtue. Nostromo ceased baling, and, as if struck with a sudden thought, dropped the bucket with a clatter into the lighter. "Have you any message?" he asked in a lowered voice. "Remember, I shall be asked questions." "You must find the hopeful words that ought to be spoken to the people in town. I trust for that your intelligence and your experience, Capataz. You understand?" "Si, senor. . . . For the ladies." "Yes, yes," said Decoud, hastily. "Your wonderful reputation will make them attach great value to your words; therefore be careful what you say. I am looking forward," he continued, feeling the fatal touch of contempt for himself to which his complex nature was subject, "I am looking forward to a glorious and successful ending to my mission. Do you hear, Capataz? Use the words glorious and successful when you speak to the senorita. Your own mission is accomplished gloriously and successfully. You have indubitably saved the silver of the mine. Not only this silver, but probably all the silver that shall ever come out of it." Nostromo detected the ironic tone. "I dare say, Senor Don Martin," he said, moodily. "There are very few things that I am not equal to. Ask the foreign signori. I, a man of the people, who cannot always understand what you mean. But as to this lot which I must leave here, let me tell you that I would believe it in greater safety if you had not been with me at all." An exclamation escaped Decoud, and a short pause followed. "Shall I go back with you to Sulaco?" he asked in an angry tone. "Shall I strike you dead with my knife where you stand?" retorted Nostromo, contemptuously. "It would be the same thing as taking you to Sulaco. Come, senor. Your reputation is in your politics, and mine is bound up with the fate of this silver. Do you wonder I wish there had been no other man to share my knowledge? I wanted no one with me, senor." "You could not have kept the lighter afloat without me," Decoud almost shouted. "You would have gone to the bottom with her." "Yes," uttered Nostromo, slowly; "alone." Here was a man, Decoud reflected, that seemed as though he would have preferred to die rather than deface the perfect form of his egoism. Such a man was safe. In silence he helped the Capataz to get the grapnel on board. Nostromo cleared the shelving shore with one push of the heavy oar, and Decoud found himself solitary on the beach like a man in a dream. A sudden desire to hear a human voice once more seized upon his heart. The lighter was hardly distinguishable from the black water upon which she floated. "What do you think has become of Hirsch?" he shouted. "Knocked overboard and drowned," cried Nostromo's voice confidently out of the black wastes of sky and sea around the islet. "Keep close in the ravine, senor. I shall try to come out to you in a night or two." A slight swishing rustle showed that Nostromo was setting the sail. It filled all at once with a sound as of a single loud drum-tap. Decoud went back to the ravine. Nostromo, at the tiller, looked back from time to time at the vanishing mass of the Great Isabel, which, little by little, merged into the uniform texture of the night. At last, when he turned his head again, he saw nothing but a smooth darkness, like a solid wall. Then he, too, experienced that feeling of solitude which had weighed heavily on Decoud after the lighter had slipped off the shore. But while the man on the island was oppressed by a bizarre sense of unreality affecting the very ground upon which he walked, the mind of the Capataz of the Cargadores turned alertly to the problem of future conduct. Nostromo's faculties, working on parallel lines, enabled him to steer straight, to keep a look-out for Hermosa, near which he had to pass, and to try to imagine what would happen tomorrow in Sulaco. To-morrow, or, as a matter of fact, to-day, since the dawn was not very far, Sotillo would find out in what way the treasure had gone. A gang of Cargadores had been employed in loading it into a railway truck from the Custom House store-rooms, and running the truck on to the wharf. There would be arrests made, and certainly before noon Sotillo would know in what manner the silver had left Sulaco, and who it was that took it out. Nostromo's intention had been to sail right into the harbour; but at this thought by a sudden touch of the tiller he threw the lighter into the wind and checked her rapid way. His re-appearance with the very boat would raise suspicions, would cause surmises, would absolutely put Sotillo on the track. He himself would be arrested; and once in the Calabozo there was no saying what they would do to him to make him speak. He trusted himself, but he stood up to look round. Near by, Hermosa showed low its white surface as flat as a table, with the slight run of the sea raised by the breeze washing over its edges noisily. The lighter must be sunk at once. He allowed her to drift with her sail aback. There was already a good deal of water in her. He allowed her to drift towards the harbour entrance, and, letting the tiller swing about, squatted down and busied himself in loosening the plug. With that out she would fill very quickly, and every lighter carried a little iron ballast--enough to make her go down when full of water. When he stood up again the noisy wash about the Hermosa sounded far away, almost inaudible; and already he could make out the shape of land about the harbour entrance. This was a desperate affair, and he was a good swimmer. A mile was nothing to him, and he knew of an easy place for landing just below the earthworks of the old abandoned fort. It occurred to him with a peculiar fascination that this fort was a good place in which to sleep the day through after so many sleepless nights. With one blow of the tiller he unshipped for the purpose, he knocked the plug out, but did not take the trouble to lower the sail. He felt the water welling up heavily about his legs before he leaped on to the taffrail. There, upright and motionless, in his shirt and trousers only, he stood waiting. When he had felt her settle he sprang far away with a mighty splash. At once he turned his head. The gloomy, clouded dawn from behind the mountains showed him on the smooth waters the upper corner of the sail, a dark wet triangle of canvas waving slightly to and fro. He saw it vanish, as if jerked under, and then struck out for the shore. PART THIRD THE LIGHTHOUSE CHAPTER ONE Directly the cargo boat had slipped away from the wharf and got lost in the darkness of the harbour the Europeans of Sulaco separated, to prepare for the coming of the Monterist regime, which was approaching Sulaco from the mountains, as well as from the sea. This bit of manual work in loading the silver was their last concerted action. It ended the three days of danger, during which, according to the newspaper press of Europe, their energy had preserved the town from the calamities of popular disorder. At the shore end of the jetty, Captain Mitchell said good-night and turned back. His intention was to walk the planks of the wharf till the steamer from Esmeralda turned up. The engineers of the railway staff, collecting their Basque and Italian workmen, marched them away to the railway yards, leaving the Custom House, so well defended on the first day of the riot, standing open to the four winds of heaven. Their men had conducted themselves bravely and faithfully during the famous "three days" of Sulaco. In a great part this faithfulness and that courage had been exercised in self-defence rather than in the cause of those material interests to which Charles Gould had pinned his faith. Amongst the cries of the mob not the least loud had been the cry of death to foreigners. It was, indeed, a lucky circumstance for Sulaco that the relations of those imported workmen with the people of the country had been uniformly bad from the first. Doctor Monygham, going to the door of Viola's kitchen, observed this retreat marking the end of the foreign interference, this withdrawal of the army of material progress from the field of Costaguana revolutions. Algarrobe torches carried on the outskirts of the moving body sent their penetrating aroma into his nostrils. Their light, sweeping along the front of the house, made the letters of the inscription, "Albergo d'ltalia Una," leap out black from end to end of the long wall. His eyes blinked in the clear blaze. Several young men, mostly fair and tall, shepherding this mob of dark bronzed heads, surmounted by the glint of slanting rifle barrels, nodded to him familiarly as they went by. The doctor was a well-known character. Some of them wondered what he was doing there. Then, on the flank of their workmen they tramped on, following the line of rails. "Withdrawing your people from the harbour?" said the doctor, addressing himself to the chief engineer of the railway, who had accompanied Charles Gould so far on his way to the town, walking by the side of the horse, with his hand on the saddle-bow. They had stopped just outside the open door to let the workmen cross the road. "As quick as I can. We are not a political faction," answered the engineer, meaningly. "And we are not going to give our new rulers a handle against the railway. You approve me, Gould?" "Absolutely," said Charles Gould's impassive voice, high up and outside the dim parallelogram of light falling on the road through the open door. With Sotillo expected from one side, and Pedro Montero from the other, the engineer-in-chief's only anxiety now was to avoid a collision with either. Sulaco, for him, was a railway station, a terminus, workshops, a great accumulation of stores. As against the mob the railway defended its property, but politically the railway was neutral. He was a brave man; and in that spirit of neutrality he had carried proposals of truce to the self-appointed chiefs of the popular party, the deputies Fuentes and Gamacho. Bullets were still flying about when he had crossed the Plaza on that mission, waving above his head a white napkin belonging to the table linen of the Amarilla Club. He was rather proud of this exploit; and reflecting that the doctor, busy all day with the wounded in the patio of the Casa Gould, had not had time to hear the news, he began a succinct narrative. He had communicated to them the intelligence from the Construction Camp as to Pedro Montero. The brother of the victorious general, he had assured them, could be expected at Sulaco at any time now. This news (as he anticipated), when shouted out of the window by Senor Gamacho, induced a rush of the mob along the Campo Road towards Rincon. The two deputies also, after shaking hands with him effusively, mounted and galloped off to meet the great man. "I have misled them a little as to the time," the chief engineer confessed. "However hard he rides, he can scarcely get here before the morning. But my object is attained. I've secured several hours' peace for the losing party. But I did not tell them anything about Sotillo, for fear they would take it into their heads to try to get hold of the harbour again, either to oppose him or welcome him--there's no saying which. There was Gould's silver, on which rests the remnant of our hopes. Decoud's retreat had to be thought of, too. I think the railway has done pretty well by its friends without compromising itself hopelessly. Now the parties must be left to themselves." "Costaguana for the Costaguaneros," interjected the doctor, sardonically. "It is a fine country, and they have raised a fine crop of hates, vengeance, murder, and rapine--those sons of the country." "Well, I am one of them," Charles Gould's voice sounded, calmly, "and I must be going on to see to my own crop of trouble. My wife has driven straight on, doctor?" "Yes. All was quiet on this side. Mrs. Gould has taken the two girls with her." Charles Gould rode on, and the engineer-in-chief followed the doctor indoors. "That man is calmness personified," he said, appreciatively, dropping on a bench, and stretching his well-shaped legs in cycling stockings nearly across the doorway. "He must be extremely sure of himself." "If that's all he is sure of, then he is sure of nothing," said the doctor. He had perched himself again on the end of the table. He nursed his cheek in the palm of one hand, while the other sustained the elbow. "It is the last thing a man ought to be sure of." The candle, half-consumed and burning dimly with a long wick, lighted up from below his inclined face, whose expression affected by the drawn-in cicatrices in the cheeks, had something vaguely unnatural, an exaggerated remorseful bitterness. As he sat there he had the air of meditating upon sinister things. The engineer-in-chief gazed at him for a time before he protested. "I really don't see that. For me there seems to be nothing else. However----" He was a wise man, but he could not quite conceal his contempt for that sort of paradox; in fact. Dr. Monygham was not liked by the Europeans of Sulaco. His outward aspect of an outcast, which he preserved even in Mrs. Gould's drawing-room, provoked unfavourable criticism. There could be no doubt of his intelligence; and as he had lived for over twenty years in the country, the pessimism of his outlook could not be altogether ignored. But instinctively, in self-defence of their activities and hopes, his hearers put it to the account of some hidden imperfection in the man's character. It was known that many years before, when quite young, he had been made by Guzman Bento chief medical officer of the army. Not one of the Europeans then in the service of Costaguana had been so much liked and trusted by the fierce old Dictator. Afterwards his story was not so clear. It lost itself amongst the innumerable tales of conspiracies and plots against the tyrant as a stream is lost in an arid belt of sandy country before it emerges, diminished and troubled, perhaps, on the other side. The doctor made no secret of it that he had lived for years in the wildest parts of the Republic, wandering with almost unknown Indian tribes in the great forests of the far interior where the great rivers have their sources. But it was mere aimless wandering; he had written nothing, collected nothing, brought nothing for science out of the twilight of the forests, which seemed to cling to his battered personality limping about Sulaco, where it had drifted in casually, only to get stranded on the shores of the sea. It was also known that he had lived in a state of destitution till the arrival of the Goulds from Europe. Don Carlos and Dona Emilia had taken up the mad English doctor, when it became apparent that for all his savage independence he could be tamed by kindness. Perhaps it was only hunger that had tamed him. In years gone by he had certainly been acquainted with Charles Gould's father in Sta. Marta; and now, no matter what were the dark passages of his history, as the medical officer of the San Tome mine he became a recognized personality. He was recognized, but not unreservedly accepted. So much defiant eccentricity and such an outspoken scorn for mankind seemed to point to mere recklessness of judgment, the bravado of guilt. Besides, since he had become again of some account, vague whispers had been heard that years ago, when fallen into disgrace and thrown into prison by Guzman Bento at the time of the so-called Great Conspiracy, he had betrayed some of his best friends amongst the conspirators. Nobody pretended to believe that whisper; the whole story of the Great Conspiracy was hopelessly involved and obscure; it is admitted in Costaguana that there never had been a conspiracy except in the diseased imagination of the Tyrant; and, therefore, nothing and no one to betray; though the most distinguished Costaguaneros had been imprisoned and executed upon that accusation. The procedure had dragged on for years, decimating the better class like a pestilence. The mere expression of sorrow for the fate of executed kinsmen had been punished with death. Don Jose Avellanos was perhaps the only one living who knew the whole story of those unspeakable cruelties. He had suffered from them himself, and he, with a shrug of the shoulders and a nervous, jerky gesture of the arm, was wont to put away from him, as it were, every allusion to it. But whatever the reason, Dr. Monygham, a personage in the administration of the Gould Concession, treated with reverent awe by the miners, and indulged in his peculiarities by Mrs. Gould, remained somehow outside the pale. It was not from any liking for the doctor that the engineer-in-chief had lingered in the inn upon the plain. He liked old Viola much better. He had come to look upon the Albergo d'ltalia Una as a dependence of the railway. Many of his subordinates had their quarters there. Mrs. Gould's interest in the family conferred upon it a sort of distinction. The engineer-in-chief, with an army of workers under his orders, appreciated the moral influence of the old Garibaldino upon his countrymen. His austere, old-world Republicanism had a severe, soldier-like standard of faithfulness and duty, as if the world were a battlefield where men had to fight for the sake of universal love and brotherhood, instead of a more or less large share of booty. "Poor old chap!" he said, after he had heard the doctor's account of Teresa. "He'll never be able to keep the place going by himself. I shall be sorry." "He's quite alone up there," grunted Doctor Monygham, with a toss of his heavy head towards the narrow staircase. "Every living soul has cleared out, and Mrs. Gould took the girls away just now. It might not be over-safe for them out here before very long. Of course, as a doctor I can do nothing more here; but she has asked me to stay with old Viola, and as I have no horse to get back to the mine, where I ought to be, I made no difficulty to stay. They can do without me in the town." "I have a good mind to remain with you, doctor, till we see whether anything happens to-night at the harbour," declared the engineer-in-chief. "He must not be molested by Sotillo's soldiery, who may push on as far as this at once. Sotillo used to be very cordial to me at the Goulds' and at the club. How that man'll ever dare to look any of his friends here in the face

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

was completely wet), disclosed to the toiling Decoud the eagerness of his face, bent low over the box of the compass, and the attentive stare of his eyes. He knew now where he was, and he hoped to run the sinking lighter ashore in the shallow cove where the high, cliff-like end of the Great Isabel is divided in two equal parts by a deep and overgrown ravine. Decoud pumped without intermission. Nostromo steered without relaxing for a second the intense, peering effort of his stare. Each of them was as if utterly alone with his task. It did not occur to them to speak. There was nothing in common between them but the knowledge that the damaged lighter must be slowly but surely sinking. In that knowledge, which was like the crucial test of their desires, they seemed to have become completely estranged, as if they had discovered in the very shock of the collision that the loss of the lighter would not mean the same thing to them both. This common danger brought their differences in aim, in view, in character, and in position, into absolute prominence in the private vision of each. There was no bond of conviction, of common idea; they were merely two adventurers pursuing each his own adventure, involved in the same imminence of deadly peril. Therefore they had nothing to say to each other. But this peril, this only incontrovertible truth in which they shared, seemed to act as an inspiration to their mental and bodily powers. There was certainly something almost miraculous in the way the Capataz made the cove with nothing but the shadowy hint of the island's shape and the vague gleam of a small sandy strip for a guide. Where the ravine opens between the cliffs, and a slender, shallow rivulet meanders out of the bushes to lose itself in the sea, the lighter was run ashore; and the two men, with a taciturn, undaunted energy, began to discharge her precious freight, carrying each ox-hide box up the bed of the rivulet beyond the bushes to a hollow place which the caving in of the soil had made below the roots of a large tree. Its big smooth trunk leaned like a falling column far over the trickle of water running amongst the loose stones. A couple of years before Nostromo had spent a whole Sunday, all alone, exploring the island. He explained this to Decoud after their task was done, and they sat, weary in every limb, with their legs hanging down the low bank, and their backs against the tree, like a pair of blind men aware of each other and their surroundings by some indefinable sixth sense. "Yes," Nostromo repeated, "I never forget a place I have carefully looked at once." He spoke slowly, almost lazily, as if there had been a whole leisurely life before him, instead of the scanty two hours before daylight. The existence of the treasure, barely concealed in this improbable spot, laid a burden of secrecy upon every contemplated step, upon every intention and plan of future conduct. He felt the partial failure of this desperate affair entrusted to the great reputation he had known how to make for himself. However, it was also a partial success. His vanity was half appeased. His nervous irritation had subsided. "You never know what may be of use," he pursued with his usual quietness of tone and manner. "I spent a whole miserable Sunday in exploring this crumb of land." "A misanthropic sort of occupation," muttered Decoud, viciously. "You had no money, I suppose, to gamble with, and to fling about amongst the girls in your usual haunts, Capataz." "_E vero!_" exclaimed the Capataz, surprised into the use of his native tongue by so much perspicacity. "I had not! Therefore I did not want to go amongst those beggarly people accustomed to my generosity. It is looked for from the Capataz of the Cargadores, who are the rich men, and, as it were, the Caballeros amongst the common people. I don't care for cards but as a pastime; and as to those girls that boast of having opened their doors to my knock, you know I wouldn't look at any one of them twice except for what the people would say. They are queer, the good people of Sulaco, and I have got much useful information simply by listening patiently to the talk of the women that everybody believed I was in love with. Poor Teresa could never understand that. On that particular Sunday, senor, she scolded so that I went out of the house swearing that I would never darken their door again unless to fetch away my hammock and my chest of clothes. Senor, there is nothing more exasperating than to hear a woman you respect rail against your good reputation when you have not a single brass coin in your pocket. I untied one of the small boats and pulled myself out of the harbour with nothing but three cigars in my pocket to help me spend the day on this island. But the water of this rivulet you hear under your feet is cool and sweet and good, senor, both before and after a smoke." He was silent for a while, then added reflectively, "That was the first Sunday after I brought down the white-whiskered English rico all the way down the mountains from the Paramo on the top of the Entrada Pass--and in the coach, too! No coach had gone up or down that mountain road within the memory of man, senor, till I brought this one down in charge of fifty peons working like one man with ropes, pickaxes, and poles under my direction. That was the rich Englishman who, as people say, pays for the making of this railway. He was very pleased with me. But my wages were not due till the end of the month." He slid down the bank suddenly. Decoud heard the splash of his feet in the brook and followed his footsteps down the ravine. His form was lost among the bushes till he had reached the strip of sand under the cliff. As often happens in the gulf when the showers during the first part of the night had been frequent and heavy, the darkness had thinned considerably towards the morning though there were no signs of daylight as yet. The cargo-lighter, relieved of its precious burden, rocked feebly, half-afloat, with her fore-foot on the sand. A long rope stretched away like a black cotton thread across the strip of white beach to the grapnel Nostromo had carried ashore and hooked to the stem of a tree-like shrub in the very opening of the ravine. There was nothing for Decoud but to remain on the island. He received from Nostromo's hands whatever food the foresight of Captain Mitchell had put on board the lighter and deposited it temporarily in the little dinghy which on their arrival they had hauled up out of sight amongst the bushes. It was to be left with him. The island was to be a hiding-place, not a prison; he could pull out to a passing ship. The O.S.N. Company's mail boats passed close to the islands when going into Sulaco from the north. But the Minerva, carrying off the ex-president, had taken the news up north of the disturbances in Sulaco. It was possible that the next steamer down would get instructions to miss the port altogether since the town, as far as the Minerva's officers knew, was for the time being in the hands of the rabble. This would mean that there would be no steamer for a month, as far as the mail service went; but Decoud had to take his chance of that. The island was his only shelter from the proscription hanging over his head. The Capataz was, of course, going back. The unloaded lighter leaked much less, and he thought that she would keep afloat as far as the harbour. He passed to Decoud, standing knee-deep alongside, one of the two spades which belonged to the equipment of each lighter for use when ballasting ships. By working with it carefully as soon as there was daylight enough to see, Decoud could loosen a mass of earth and stones overhanging the cavity in which they had deposited the treasure, so that it would look as if it had fallen naturally. It would cover up not only the cavity, but even all traces of their work, the footsteps, the displaced stones, and even the broken bushes. "Besides, who would think of looking either for you or the treasure here?" Nostromo continued, as if he could not tear himself away from the spot. "Nobody is ever likely to come here. What could any man want with this piece of earth as long as there is room for his feet on the mainland! The people in this country are not curious. There are even no fishermen here to intrude upon your worship. All the fishing that is done in the gulf goes on near Zapiga, over there. Senor, if you are forced to leave this island before anything can be arranged for you, do not try to make for Zapiga. It is a settlement of thieves and matreros, where they would cut your throat promptly for the sake of your gold watch and chain. And, senor, think twice before confiding in any one whatever; even in the officers of the Company's steamers, if you ever get on board one. Honesty alone is not enough for security. You must look to discretion and prudence in a man. And always remember, senor, before you open your lips for a confidence, that this treasure may be left safely here for hundreds of years. Time is on its side, senor. And silver is an incorruptible metal that can be trusted to keep its value for ever. . . . An incorruptible metal," he repeated, as if the idea had given him a profound pleasure. "As some men are said to be," Decoud pronounced, inscrutably, while the Capataz, who busied himself in baling out the lighter with a wooden bucket, went on throwing the water over the side with a regular splash. Decoud, incorrigible in his scepticism, reflected, not cynically, but with general satisfaction, that this man was made incorruptible by his enormous vanity, that finest form of egoism which can take on the aspect of every virtue. Nostromo ceased baling, and, as if struck with a sudden thought, dropped the bucket with a clatter into the lighter. "Have you any message?" he asked in a lowered voice. "Remember, I shall be asked questions." "You must find the hopeful words that ought to be spoken to the people in town. I trust for that your intelligence and your experience, Capataz. You understand?" "Si, senor. . . . For the ladies." "Yes, yes," said Decoud, hastily. "Your wonderful reputation will make them attach great value to your words; therefore be careful what you say. I am looking forward," he continued, feeling the fatal touch of contempt for himself to which his complex nature was subject, "I am looking forward to a glorious and successful ending to my mission. Do you hear, Capataz? Use the words glorious and successful when you speak to the senorita. Your own mission is accomplished gloriously and successfully. You have indubitably saved the silver of the mine. Not only this silver, but probably all the silver that shall ever come out of it." Nostromo detected the ironic tone. "I dare say, Senor Don Martin," he said, moodily. "There are very few things that I am not equal to. Ask the foreign signori. I, a man of the people, who cannot always understand what you mean. But as to this lot which I must leave here, let me tell you that I would believe it in greater safety if you had not been with me at all." An exclamation escaped Decoud, and a short pause followed. "Shall I go back with you to Sulaco?" he asked in an angry tone. "Shall I strike you dead with my knife where you stand?" retorted Nostromo, contemptuously. "It would be the same thing as taking you to Sulaco. Come, senor. Your reputation is in your politics, and mine is bound up with the fate of this silver. Do you wonder I wish there had been no other man to share my knowledge? I wanted no one with me, senor." "You could not have kept the lighter afloat without me," Decoud almost shouted. "You would have gone to the bottom with her." "Yes," uttered Nostromo, slowly; "alone." Here was a man, Decoud reflected, that seemed as though he would have preferred to die rather than deface the perfect form of his egoism. Such a man was safe. In silence he helped the Capataz to get the grapnel on board. Nostromo cleared the shelving shore with one push of the heavy oar, and Decoud found himself solitary on the beach like a man in a dream. A sudden desire to hear a human voice once more seized upon his heart. The lighter was hardly distinguishable from the black water upon which she floated. "What do you think has become of Hirsch?" he shouted. "Knocked overboard and drowned," cried Nostromo's voice confidently out of the black wastes of sky and sea around the islet. "Keep close in the ravine, senor. I shall try to come out to you in a night or two." A slight swishing rustle showed that Nostromo was setting the sail. It filled all at once with a sound as of a single loud drum-tap. Decoud went back to the ravine. Nostromo, at the tiller, looked back from time to time at the vanishing mass of the Great Isabel, which, little by little, merged into the uniform texture of the night. At last, when he turned his head again, he saw nothing but a smooth darkness, like a solid wall. Then he, too, experienced that feeling of solitude which had weighed heavily on Decoud after the lighter had slipped off the shore. But while the man on the island was oppressed by a bizarre sense of unreality affecting the very ground upon which he walked, the mind of the Capataz of the Cargadores turned alertly to the problem of future conduct. Nostromo's faculties, working on parallel lines, enabled him to steer straight, to keep a look-out for Hermosa, near which he had to pass, and to try to imagine what would happen tomorrow in Sulaco. To-morrow, or, as a matter of fact, to-day, since the dawn was not very far, Sotillo would find out in what way the treasure had gone. A gang of Cargadores had been employed in loading it into a railway truck from the Custom House store-rooms, and running the truck on to the wharf. There would be arrests made, and certainly before noon Sotillo would know in what manner the silver had left Sulaco, and who it was that took it out. Nostromo's intention had been to sail right into the harbour; but at this thought by a sudden touch of the tiller he threw the lighter into the wind and checked her rapid way. His re-appearance with the very boat would raise suspicions, would cause surmises, would absolutely put Sotillo on the track. He himself would be arrested; and once in the Calabozo there was no saying what they would do to him to make him speak. He trusted himself, but he stood up to look round. Near by, Hermosa showed low its white surface as flat as a table, with the slight run of the sea raised by the breeze washing over its edges noisily. The lighter must be sunk at once. He allowed her to drift with her sail aback. There was already a good deal of water in her. He allowed her to drift towards the harbour entrance, and, letting the tiller swing about, squatted down and busied himself in loosening the plug. With that out she would fill very quickly, and every lighter carried a little iron ballast--enough to make her go down when full of water. When he stood up again the noisy wash about the Hermosa sounded far away, almost inaudible; and already he could make out the shape of land about the harbour entrance. This was a desperate affair, and he was a good swimmer. A mile was nothing to him, and he knew of an easy place for landing just below the earthworks of the old abandoned fort. It occurred to him with a peculiar fascination that this fort was a good place in which to sleep the day through after so many sleepless nights. With one blow of the tiller he unshipped for the purpose, he knocked the plug out, but did not take the trouble to lower the sail. He felt the water welling up heavily about his legs before he leaped on to the taffrail. There, upright and motionless, in his shirt and trousers only, he stood waiting. When he had felt her settle he sprang far away with a mighty splash. At once he turned his head. The gloomy, clouded dawn from behind the mountains showed him on the smooth waters the upper corner of the sail, a dark wet triangle of canvas waving slightly to and fro. He saw it vanish, as if jerked under, and then struck out for the shore. PART THIRD THE LIGHTHOUSE CHAPTER ONE Directly the cargo boat had slipped away from the wharf and got lost in the darkness of the harbour the Europeans of Sulaco separated, to prepare for the coming of the Monterist regime, which was approaching Sulaco from the mountains, as well as from the sea. This bit of manual work in loading the silver was their last concerted action. It ended the three days of danger, during which, according to the newspaper press of Europe, their energy had preserved the town from the calamities of popular disorder. At the shore end of the jetty, Captain Mitchell said good-night and turned back. His intention was to walk the planks of the wharf till the steamer from Esmeralda turned up. The engineers of the railway staff, collecting their Basque and Italian workmen, marched them away to the railway yards, leaving the Custom House, so well defended on the first day of the riot, standing open to the four winds of heaven. Their men had conducted themselves bravely and faithfully during the famous "three days" of Sulaco. In a great part this faithfulness and that courage had been exercised in self-defence rather than in the cause of those material interests to which Charles Gould had pinned his faith. Amongst the cries of the mob not the least loud had been the cry of death to foreigners. It was, indeed, a lucky circumstance for Sulaco that the relations of those imported workmen with the people of the country had been uniformly bad from the first. Doctor Monygham, going to the door of Viola's kitchen, observed this retreat marking the end of the foreign interference, this withdrawal of the army of material progress from the field of Costaguana revolutions. Algarrobe torches carried on the outskirts of the moving body sent their penetrating aroma into his nostrils. Their light, sweeping along the front of the house, made the letters of the inscription, "Albergo d'ltalia Una," leap out black from end to end of the long wall. His eyes blinked in the clear blaze. Several young men, mostly fair and tall, shepherding this mob of dark bronzed heads, surmounted by the glint of slanting rifle barrels, nodded to him familiarly as they went by. The doctor was a well-known character. Some of them wondered what he was doing there. Then, on the flank of their workmen they tramped on, following the line of rails. "Withdrawing your people from the harbour?" said the doctor, addressing himself to the chief engineer of the railway, who had accompanied Charles Gould so far on his way to the town, walking by the side of the horse, with his hand on the saddle-bow. They had stopped just outside the open door to let the workmen cross the road. "As quick as I can. We are not a political faction," answered the engineer, meaningly. "And we are not going to give our new rulers a handle against the railway. You approve me, Gould?" "Absolutely," said Charles Gould's impassive voice, high up and outside the dim parallelogram of light falling on the road through the open door. With Sotillo expected from one side, and Pedro Montero from the other, the engineer-in-chief's only anxiety now was to avoid a collision with either. Sulaco, for him, was a railway station, a terminus, workshops, a great accumulation of stores. As against the mob the railway defended its property, but politically the railway was neutral. He was a brave man; and in that spirit of neutrality he had carried proposals of truce to the self-appointed chiefs of the popular party, the deputies Fuentes and Gamacho. Bullets were still flying about when he had crossed the Plaza on that mission, waving above his head a white napkin belonging to the table linen of the Amarilla Club. He was rather proud of this exploit; and reflecting that the doctor, busy all day with the wounded in the patio of the Casa Gould, had not had time to hear the news, he began a succinct narrative. He had communicated to them the intelligence from the Construction Camp as to Pedro Montero. The brother of the victorious general, he had assured them, could be expected at Sulaco at any time now. This news (as he anticipated), when shouted out of the window by Senor Gamacho, induced a rush of the mob along the Campo Road towards Rincon. The two deputies also, after shaking hands with him effusively, mounted and galloped off to meet the great man. "I have misled them a little as to the time," the chief engineer confessed. "However hard he rides, he can scarcely get here before the morning. But my object is attained. I've secured several hours' peace for the losing party. But I did not tell them anything about Sotillo, for fear they would take it into their heads to try to get hold of the harbour again, either to oppose him or welcome him--there's no saying which. There was Gould's silver, on which rests the remnant of our hopes. Decoud's retreat had to be thought of, too. I think the railway has done pretty well by its friends without compromising itself hopelessly. Now the parties must be left to themselves." "Costaguana for the Costaguaneros," interjected the doctor, sardonically. "It is a fine country, and they have raised a fine crop of hates, vengeance, murder, and rapine--those sons of the country." "Well, I am one of them," Charles Gould's voice sounded, calmly, "and I must be going on to see to my own crop of trouble. My wife has driven straight on, doctor?" "Yes. All was quiet on this side. Mrs. Gould has taken the two girls with her." Charles Gould rode on, and the engineer-in-chief followed the doctor indoors. "That man is calmness personified," he said, appreciatively, dropping on a bench, and stretching his well-shaped legs in cycling stockings nearly across the doorway. "He must be extremely sure of himself." "If that's all he is sure of, then he is sure of nothing," said the doctor. He had perched himself again on the end of the table. He nursed his cheek in the palm of one hand, while the other sustained the elbow. "It is the last thing a man ought to be sure of." The candle, half-consumed and burning dimly with a long wick, lighted up from below his inclined face, whose expression affected by the drawn-in cicatrices in the cheeks, had something vaguely unnatural, an exaggerated remorseful bitterness. As he sat there he had the air of meditating upon sinister things. The engineer-in-chief gazed at him for a time before he protested. "I really don't see that. For me there seems to be nothing else. However----" He was a wise man, but he could not quite conceal his contempt for that sort of paradox; in fact. Dr. Monygham was not liked by the Europeans of Sulaco. His outward aspect of an outcast, which he preserved even in Mrs. Gould's drawing-room, provoked unfavourable criticism. There could be no doubt of his intelligence; and as he had lived for over twenty years in the country, the pessimism of his outlook could not be altogether ignored. But instinctively, in self-defence of their activities and hopes, his hearers put it to the account of some hidden imperfection in the man's character. It was known that many years before, when quite young, he had been made by Guzman Bento chief medical officer of the army. Not one of the Europeans then in the service of Costaguana had been so much liked and trusted by the fierce old Dictator. Afterwards his story was not so clear. It lost itself amongst the innumerable tales of conspiracies and plots against the tyrant as a stream is lost in an arid belt of sandy country before it emerges, diminished and troubled, perhaps, on the other side. The doctor made no secret of it that he had lived for years in the wildest parts of the Republic, wandering with almost unknown Indian tribes in the great forests of the far interior where the great rivers have their sources. But it was mere aimless wandering; he had written nothing, collected nothing, brought nothing for science out of the twilight of the forests, which seemed to cling to his battered personality limping about Sulaco, where it had drifted in casually, only to get stranded on the shores of the sea. It was also known that he had lived in a state of destitution till the arrival of the Goulds from Europe. Don Carlos and Dona Emilia had taken up the mad English doctor, when it became apparent that for all his savage independence he could be tamed by kindness. Perhaps it was only hunger that had tamed him. In years gone by he had certainly been acquainted with Charles Gould's father in Sta. Marta; and now, no matter what were the dark passages of his history, as the medical officer of the San Tome mine he became a recognized personality. He was recognized, but not unreservedly accepted. So much defiant eccentricity and such an outspoken scorn for mankind seemed to point to mere recklessness of judgment, the bravado of guilt. Besides, since he had become again of some account, vague whispers had been heard that years ago, when fallen into disgrace and thrown into prison by Guzman Bento at the time of the so-called Great Conspiracy, he had betrayed some of his best friends amongst the conspirators. Nobody pretended to believe that whisper; the whole story of the Great Conspiracy was hopelessly involved and obscure; it is admitted in Costaguana that there never had been a conspiracy except in the diseased imagination of the Tyrant; and, therefore, nothing and no one to betray; though the most distinguished Costaguaneros had been imprisoned and executed upon that accusation. The procedure had dragged on for years, decimating the better class like a pestilence. The mere expression of sorrow for the fate of executed kinsmen had been punished with death. Don Jose Avellanos was perhaps the only one living who knew the whole story of those unspeakable cruelties. He had suffered from them himself, and he, with a shrug of the shoulders and a nervous, jerky gesture of the arm, was wont to put away from him, as it were, every allusion to it. But whatever the reason, Dr. Monygham, a personage in the administration of the Gould Concession, treated with reverent awe by the miners, and indulged in his peculiarities by Mrs. Gould, remained somehow outside the pale. It was not from any liking for the doctor that the engineer-in-chief had lingered in the inn upon the plain. He liked old Viola much better. He had come to look upon the Albergo d'ltalia Una as a dependence of the railway. Many of his subordinates had their quarters there. Mrs. Gould's interest in the family conferred upon it a sort of distinction. The engineer-in-chief, with an army of workers under his orders, appreciated the moral influence of the old Garibaldino upon his countrymen. His austere, old-world Republicanism had a severe, soldier-like standard of faithfulness and duty, as if the world were a battlefield where men had to fight for the sake of universal love and brotherhood, instead of a more or less large share of booty. "Poor old chap!" he said, after he had heard the doctor's account of Teresa. "He'll never be able to keep the place going by himself. I shall be sorry." "He's quite alone up there," grunted Doctor Monygham, with a toss of his heavy head towards the narrow staircase. "Every living soul has cleared out, and Mrs. Gould took the girls away just now. It might not be over-safe for them out here before very long. Of course, as a doctor I can do nothing more here; but she has asked me to stay with old Viola, and as I have no horse to get back to the mine, where I ought to be, I made no difficulty to stay. They can do without me in the town." "I have a good mind to remain with you, doctor, till we see whether anything happens to-night at the harbour," declared the engineer-in-chief. "He must not be molested by Sotillo's soldiery, who may push on as far as this at once. Sotillo used to be very cordial to me at the Goulds' and at the club. How that man'll ever dare to look any of his friends here in the face

mail

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

was completely wet), disclosed to the toiling Decoud the eagerness of his face, bent low over the box of the compass, and the attentive stare of his eyes. He knew now where he was, and he hoped to run the sinking lighter ashore in the shallow cove where the high, cliff-like end of the Great Isabel is divided in two equal parts by a deep and overgrown ravine. Decoud pumped without intermission. Nostromo steered without relaxing for a second the intense, peering effort of his stare. Each of them was as if utterly alone with his task. It did not occur to them to speak. There was nothing in common between them but the knowledge that the damaged lighter must be slowly but surely sinking. In that knowledge, which was like the crucial test of their desires, they seemed to have become completely estranged, as if they had discovered in the very shock of the collision that the loss of the lighter would not mean the same thing to them both. This common danger brought their differences in aim, in view, in character, and in position, into absolute prominence in the private vision of each. There was no bond of conviction, of common idea; they were merely two adventurers pursuing each his own adventure, involved in the same imminence of deadly peril. Therefore they had nothing to say to each other. But this peril, this only incontrovertible truth in which they shared, seemed to act as an inspiration to their mental and bodily powers. There was certainly something almost miraculous in the way the Capataz made the cove with nothing but the shadowy hint of the island's shape and the vague gleam of a small sandy strip for a guide. Where the ravine opens between the cliffs, and a slender, shallow rivulet meanders out of the bushes to lose itself in the sea, the lighter was run ashore; and the two men, with a taciturn, undaunted energy, began to discharge her precious freight, carrying each ox-hide box up the bed of the rivulet beyond the bushes to a hollow place which the caving in of the soil had made below the roots of a large tree. Its big smooth trunk leaned like a falling column far over the trickle of water running amongst the loose stones. A couple of years before Nostromo had spent a whole Sunday, all alone, exploring the island. He explained this to Decoud after their task was done, and they sat, weary in every limb, with their legs hanging down the low bank, and their backs against the tree, like a pair of blind men aware of each other and their surroundings by some indefinable sixth sense. "Yes," Nostromo repeated, "I never forget a place I have carefully looked at once." He spoke slowly, almost lazily, as if there had been a whole leisurely life before him, instead of the scanty two hours before daylight. The existence of the treasure, barely concealed in this improbable spot, laid a burden of secrecy upon every contemplated step, upon every intention and plan of future conduct. He felt the partial failure of this desperate affair entrusted to the great reputation he had known how to make for himself. However, it was also a partial success. His vanity was half appeased. His nervous irritation had subsided. "You never know what may be of use," he pursued with his usual quietness of tone and manner. "I spent a whole miserable Sunday in exploring this crumb of land." "A misanthropic sort of occupation," muttered Decoud, viciously. "You had no money, I suppose, to gamble with, and to fling about amongst the girls in your usual haunts, Capataz." "_E vero!_" exclaimed the Capataz, surprised into the use of his native tongue by so much perspicacity. "I had not! Therefore I did not want to go amongst those beggarly people accustomed to my generosity. It is looked for from the Capataz of the Cargadores, who are the rich men, and, as it were, the Caballeros amongst the common people. I don't care for cards but as a pastime; and as to those girls that boast of having opened their doors to my knock, you know I wouldn't look at any one of them twice except for what the people would say. They are queer, the good people of Sulaco, and I have got much useful information simply by listening patiently to the talk of the women that everybody believed I was in love with. Poor Teresa could never understand that. On that particular Sunday, senor, she scolded so that I went out of the house swearing that I would never darken their door again unless to fetch away my hammock and my chest of clothes. Senor, there is nothing more exasperating than to hear a woman you respect rail against your good reputation when you have not a single brass coin in your pocket. I untied one of the small boats and pulled myself out of the harbour with nothing but three cigars in my pocket to help me spend the day on this island. But the water of this rivulet you hear under your feet is cool and sweet and good, senor, both before and after a smoke." He was silent for a while, then added reflectively, "That was the first Sunday after I brought down the white-whiskered English rico all the way down the mountains from the Paramo on the top of the Entrada Pass--and in the coach, too! No coach had gone up or down that mountain road within the memory of man, senor, till I brought this one down in charge of fifty peons working like one man with ropes, pickaxes, and poles under my direction. That was the rich Englishman who, as people say, pays for the making of this railway. He was very pleased with me. But my wages were not due till the end of the month." He slid down the bank suddenly. Decoud heard the splash of his feet in the brook and followed his footsteps down the ravine. His form was lost among the bushes till he had reached the strip of sand under the cliff. As often happens in the gulf when the showers during the first part of the night had been frequent and heavy, the darkness had thinned considerably towards the morning though there were no signs of daylight as yet. The cargo-lighter, relieved of its precious burden, rocked feebly, half-afloat, with her fore-foot on the sand. A long rope stretched away like a black cotton thread across the strip of white beach to the grapnel Nostromo had carried ashore and hooked to the stem of a tree-like shrub in the very opening of the ravine. There was nothing for Decoud but to remain on the island. He received from Nostromo's hands whatever food the foresight of Captain Mitchell had put on board the lighter and deposited it temporarily in the little dinghy which on their arrival they had hauled up out of sight amongst the bushes. It was to be left with him. The island was to be a hiding-place, not a prison; he could pull out to a passing ship. The O.S.N. Company's mail boats passed close to the islands when going into Sulaco from the north. But the Minerva, carrying off the ex-president, had taken the news up north of the disturbances in Sulaco. It was possible that the next steamer down would get instructions to miss the port altogether since the town, as far as the Minerva's officers knew, was for the time being in the hands of the rabble. This would mean that there would be no steamer for a month, as far as the mail service went; but Decoud had to take his chance of that. The island was his only shelter from the proscription hanging over his head. The Capataz was, of course, going back. The unloaded lighter leaked much less, and he thought that she would keep afloat as far as the harbour. He passed to Decoud, standing knee-deep alongside, one of the two spades which belonged to the equipment of each lighter for use when ballasting ships. By working with it carefully as soon as there was daylight enough to see, Decoud could loosen a mass of earth and stones overhanging the cavity in which they had deposited the treasure, so that it would look as if it had fallen naturally. It would cover up not only the cavity, but even all traces of their work, the footsteps, the displaced stones, and even the broken bushes. "Besides, who would think of looking either for you or the treasure here?" Nostromo continued, as if he could not tear himself away from the spot. "Nobody is ever likely to come here. What could any man want with this piece of earth as long as there is room for his feet on the mainland! The people in this country are not curious. There are even no fishermen here to intrude upon your worship. All the fishing that is done in the gulf goes on near Zapiga, over there. Senor, if you are forced to leave this island before anything can be arranged for you, do not try to make for Zapiga. It is a settlement of thieves and matreros, where they would cut your throat promptly for the sake of your gold watch and chain. And, senor, think twice before confiding in any one whatever; even in the officers of the Company's steamers, if you ever get on board one. Honesty alone is not enough for security. You must look to discretion and prudence in a man. And always remember, senor, before you open your lips for a confidence, that this treasure may be left safely here for hundreds of years. Time is on its side, senor. And silver is an incorruptible metal that can be trusted to keep its value for ever. . . . An incorruptible metal," he repeated, as if the idea had given him a profound pleasure. "As some men are said to be," Decoud pronounced, inscrutably, while the Capataz, who busied himself in baling out the lighter with a wooden bucket, went on throwing the water over the side with a regular splash. Decoud, incorrigible in his scepticism, reflected, not cynically, but with general satisfaction, that this man was made incorruptible by his enormous vanity, that finest form of egoism which can take on the aspect of every virtue. Nostromo ceased baling, and, as if struck with a sudden thought, dropped the bucket with a clatter into the lighter. "Have you any message?" he asked in a lowered voice. "Remember, I shall be asked questions." "You must find the hopeful words that ought to be spoken to the people in town. I trust for that your intelligence and your experience, Capataz. You understand?" "Si, senor. . . . For the ladies." "Yes, yes," said Decoud, hastily. "Your wonderful reputation will make them attach great value to your words; therefore be careful what you say. I am looking forward," he continued, feeling the fatal touch of contempt for himself to which his complex nature was subject, "I am looking forward to a glorious and successful ending to my mission. Do you hear, Capataz? Use the words glorious and successful when you speak to the senorita. Your own mission is accomplished gloriously and successfully. You have indubitably saved the silver of the mine. Not only this silver, but probably all the silver that shall ever come out of it." Nostromo detected the ironic tone. "I dare say, Senor Don Martin," he said, moodily. "There are very few things that I am not equal to. Ask the foreign signori. I, a man of the people, who cannot always understand what you mean. But as to this lot which I must leave here, let me tell you that I would believe it in greater safety if you had not been with me at all." An exclamation escaped Decoud, and a short pause followed. "Shall I go back with you to Sulaco?" he asked in an angry tone. "Shall I strike you dead with my knife where you stand?" retorted Nostromo, contemptuously. "It would be the same thing as taking you to Sulaco. Come, senor. Your reputation is in your politics, and mine is bound up with the fate of this silver. Do you wonder I wish there had been no other man to share my knowledge? I wanted no one with me, senor." "You could not have kept the lighter afloat without me," Decoud almost shouted. "You would have gone to the bottom with her." "Yes," uttered Nostromo, slowly; "alone." Here was a man, Decoud reflected, that seemed as though he would have preferred to die rather than deface the perfect form of his egoism. Such a man was safe. In silence he helped the Capataz to get the grapnel on board. Nostromo cleared the shelving shore with one push of the heavy oar, and Decoud found himself solitary on the beach like a man in a dream. A sudden desire to hear a human voice once more seized upon his heart. The lighter was hardly distinguishable from the black water upon which she floated. "What do you think has become of Hirsch?" he shouted. "Knocked overboard and drowned," cried Nostromo's voice confidently out of the black wastes of sky and sea around the islet. "Keep close in the ravine, senor. I shall try to come out to you in a night or two." A slight swishing rustle showed that Nostromo was setting the sail. It filled all at once with a sound as of a single loud drum-tap. Decoud went back to the ravine. Nostromo, at the tiller, looked back from time to time at the vanishing mass of the Great Isabel, which, little by little, merged into the uniform texture of the night. At last, when he turned his head again, he saw nothing but a smooth darkness, like a solid wall. Then he, too, experienced that feeling of solitude which had weighed heavily on Decoud after the lighter had slipped off the shore. But while the man on the island was oppressed by a bizarre sense of unreality affecting the very ground upon which he walked, the mind of the Capataz of the Cargadores turned alertly to the problem of future conduct. Nostromo's faculties, working on parallel lines, enabled him to steer straight, to keep a look-out for Hermosa, near which he had to pass, and to try to imagine what would happen tomorrow in Sulaco. To-morrow, or, as a matter of fact, to-day, since the dawn was not very far, Sotillo would find out in what way the treasure had gone. A gang of Cargadores had been employed in loading it into a railway truck from the Custom House store-rooms, and running the truck on to the wharf. There would be arrests made, and certainly before noon Sotillo would know in what manner the silver had left Sulaco, and who it was that took it out. Nostromo's intention had been to sail right into the harbour; but at this thought by a sudden touch of the tiller he threw the lighter into the wind and checked her rapid way. His re-appearance with the very boat would raise suspicions, would cause surmises, would absolutely put Sotillo on the track. He himself would be arrested; and once in the Calabozo there was no saying what they would do to him to make him speak. He trusted himself, but he stood up to look round. Near by, Hermosa showed low its white surface as flat as a table, with the slight run of the sea raised by the breeze washing over its edges noisily. The lighter must be sunk at once. He allowed her to drift with her sail aback. There was already a good deal of water in her. He allowed her to drift towards the harbour entrance, and, letting the tiller swing about, squatted down and busied himself in loosening the plug. With that out she would fill very quickly, and every lighter carried a little iron ballast--enough to make her go down when full of water. When he stood up again the noisy wash about the Hermosa sounded far away, almost inaudible; and already he could make out the shape of land about the harbour entrance. This was a desperate affair, and he was a good swimmer. A mile was nothing to him, and he knew of an easy place for landing just below the earthworks of the old abandoned fort. It occurred to him with a peculiar fascination that this fort was a good place in which to sleep the day through after so many sleepless nights. With one blow of the tiller he unshipped for the purpose, he knocked the plug out, but did not take the trouble to lower the sail. He felt the water welling up heavily about his legs before he leaped on to the taffrail. There, upright and motionless, in his shirt and trousers only, he stood waiting. When he had felt her settle he sprang far away with a mighty splash. At once he turned his head. The gloomy, clouded dawn from behind the mountains showed him on the smooth waters the upper corner of the sail, a dark wet triangle of canvas waving slightly to and fro. He saw it vanish, as if jerked under, and then struck out for the shore. PART THIRD THE LIGHTHOUSE CHAPTER ONE Directly the cargo boat had slipped away from the wharf and got lost in the darkness of the harbour the Europeans of Sulaco separated, to prepare for the coming of the Monterist regime, which was approaching Sulaco from the mountains, as well as from the sea. This bit of manual work in loading the silver was their last concerted action. It ended the three days of danger, during which, according to the newspaper press of Europe, their energy had preserved the town from the calamities of popular disorder. At the shore end of the jetty, Captain Mitchell said good-night and turned back. His intention was to walk the planks of the wharf till the steamer from Esmeralda turned up. The engineers of the railway staff, collecting their Basque and Italian workmen, marched them away to the railway yards, leaving the Custom House, so well defended on the first day of the riot, standing open to the four winds of heaven. Their men had conducted themselves bravely and faithfully during the famous "three days" of Sulaco. In a great part this faithfulness and that courage had been exercised in self-defence rather than in the cause of those material interests to which Charles Gould had pinned his faith. Amongst the cries of the mob not the least loud had been the cry of death to foreigners. It was, indeed, a lucky circumstance for Sulaco that the relations of those imported workmen with the people of the country had been uniformly bad from the first. Doctor Monygham, going to the door of Viola's kitchen, observed this retreat marking the end of the foreign interference, this withdrawal of the army of material progress from the field of Costaguana revolutions. Algarrobe torches carried on the outskirts of the moving body sent their penetrating aroma into his nostrils. Their light, sweeping along the front of the house, made the letters of the inscription, "Albergo d'ltalia Una," leap out black from end to end of the long wall. His eyes blinked in the clear blaze. Several young men, mostly fair and tall, shepherding this mob of dark bronzed heads, surmounted by the glint of slanting rifle barrels, nodded to him familiarly as they went by. The doctor was a well-known character. Some of them wondered what he was doing there. Then, on the flank of their workmen they tramped on, following the line of rails. "Withdrawing your people from the harbour?" said the doctor, addressing himself to the chief engineer of the railway, who had accompanied Charles Gould so far on his way to the town, walking by the side of the horse, with his hand on the saddle-bow. They had stopped just outside the open door to let the workmen cross the road. "As quick as I can. We are not a political faction," answered the engineer, meaningly. "And we are not going to give our new rulers a handle against the railway. You approve me, Gould?" "Absolutely," said Charles Gould's impassive voice, high up and outside the dim parallelogram of light falling on the road through the open door. With Sotillo expected from one side, and Pedro Montero from the other, the engineer-in-chief's only anxiety now was to avoid a collision with either. Sulaco, for him, was a railway station, a terminus, workshops, a great accumulation of stores. As against the mob the railway defended its property, but politically the railway was neutral. He was a brave man; and in that spirit of neutrality he had carried proposals of truce to the self-appointed chiefs of the popular party, the deputies Fuentes and Gamacho. Bullets were still flying about when he had crossed the Plaza on that mission, waving above his head a white napkin belonging to the table linen of the Amarilla Club. He was rather proud of this exploit; and reflecting that the doctor, busy all day with the wounded in the patio of the Casa Gould, had not had time to hear the news, he began a succinct narrative. He had communicated to them the intelligence from the Construction Camp as to Pedro Montero. The brother of the victorious general, he had assured them, could be expected at Sulaco at any time now. This news (as he anticipated), when shouted out of the window by Senor Gamacho, induced a rush of the mob along the Campo Road towards Rincon. The two deputies also, after shaking hands with him effusively, mounted and galloped off to meet the great man. "I have misled them a little as to the time," the chief engineer confessed. "However hard he rides, he can scarcely get here before the morning. But my object is attained. I've secured several hours' peace for the losing party. But I did not tell them anything about Sotillo, for fear they would take it into their heads to try to get hold of the harbour again, either to oppose him or welcome him--there's no saying which. There was Gould's silver, on which rests the remnant of our hopes. Decoud's retreat had to be thought of, too. I think the railway has done pretty well by its friends without compromising itself hopelessly. Now the parties must be left to themselves." "Costaguana for the Costaguaneros," interjected the doctor, sardonically. "It is a fine country, and they have raised a fine crop of hates, vengeance, murder, and rapine--those sons of the country." "Well, I am one of them," Charles Gould's voice sounded, calmly, "and I must be going on to see to my own crop of trouble. My wife has driven straight on, doctor?" "Yes. All was quiet on this side. Mrs. Gould has taken the two girls with her." Charles Gould rode on, and the engineer-in-chief followed the doctor indoors. "That man is calmness personified," he said, appreciatively, dropping on a bench, and stretching his well-shaped legs in cycling stockings nearly across the doorway. "He must be extremely sure of himself." "If that's all he is sure of, then he is sure of nothing," said the doctor. He had perched himself again on the end of the table. He nursed his cheek in the palm of one hand, while the other sustained the elbow. "It is the last thing a man ought to be sure of." The candle, half-consumed and burning dimly with a long wick, lighted up from below his inclined face, whose expression affected by the drawn-in cicatrices in the cheeks, had something vaguely unnatural, an exaggerated remorseful bitterness. As he sat there he had the air of meditating upon sinister things. The engineer-in-chief gazed at him for a time before he protested. "I really don't see that. For me there seems to be nothing else. However----" He was a wise man, but he could not quite conceal his contempt for that sort of paradox; in fact. Dr. Monygham was not liked by the Europeans of Sulaco. His outward aspect of an outcast, which he preserved even in Mrs. Gould's drawing-room, provoked unfavourable criticism. There could be no doubt of his intelligence; and as he had lived for over twenty years in the country, the pessimism of his outlook could not be altogether ignored. But instinctively, in self-defence of their activities and hopes, his hearers put it to the account of some hidden imperfection in the man's character. It was known that many years before, when quite young, he had been made by Guzman Bento chief medical officer of the army. Not one of the Europeans then in the service of Costaguana had been so much liked and trusted by the fierce old Dictator. Afterwards his story was not so clear. It lost itself amongst the innumerable tales of conspiracies and plots against the tyrant as a stream is lost in an arid belt of sandy country before it emerges, diminished and troubled, perhaps, on the other side. The doctor made no secret of it that he had lived for years in the wildest parts of the Republic, wandering with almost unknown Indian tribes in the great forests of the far interior where the great rivers have their sources. But it was mere aimless wandering; he had written nothing, collected nothing, brought nothing for science out of the twilight of the forests, which seemed to cling to his battered personality limping about Sulaco, where it had drifted in casually, only to get stranded on the shores of the sea. It was also known that he had lived in a state of destitution till the arrival of the Goulds from Europe. Don Carlos and Dona Emilia had taken up the mad English doctor, when it became apparent that for all his savage independence he could be tamed by kindness. Perhaps it was only hunger that had tamed him. In years gone by he had certainly been acquainted with Charles Gould's father in Sta. Marta; and now, no matter what were the dark passages of his history, as the medical officer of the San Tome mine he became a recognized personality. He was recognized, but not unreservedly accepted. So much defiant eccentricity and such an outspoken scorn for mankind seemed to point to mere recklessness of judgment, the bravado of guilt. Besides, since he had become again of some account, vague whispers had been heard that years ago, when fallen into disgrace and thrown into prison by Guzman Bento at the time of the so-called Great Conspiracy, he had betrayed some of his best friends amongst the conspirators. Nobody pretended to believe that whisper; the whole story of the Great Conspiracy was hopelessly involved and obscure; it is admitted in Costaguana that there never had been a conspiracy except in the diseased imagination of the Tyrant; and, therefore, nothing and no one to betray; though the most distinguished Costaguaneros had been imprisoned and executed upon that accusation. The procedure had dragged on for years, decimating the better class like a pestilence. The mere expression of sorrow for the fate of executed kinsmen had been punished with death. Don Jose Avellanos was perhaps the only one living who knew the whole story of those unspeakable cruelties. He had suffered from them himself, and he, with a shrug of the shoulders and a nervous, jerky gesture of the arm, was wont to put away from him, as it were, every allusion to it. But whatever the reason, Dr. Monygham, a personage in the administration of the Gould Concession, treated with reverent awe by the miners, and indulged in his peculiarities by Mrs. Gould, remained somehow outside the pale. It was not from any liking for the doctor that the engineer-in-chief had lingered in the inn upon the plain. He liked old Viola much better. He had come to look upon the Albergo d'ltalia Una as a dependence of the railway. Many of his subordinates had their quarters there. Mrs. Gould's interest in the family conferred upon it a sort of distinction. The engineer-in-chief, with an army of workers under his orders, appreciated the moral influence of the old Garibaldino upon his countrymen. His austere, old-world Republicanism had a severe, soldier-like standard of faithfulness and duty, as if the world were a battlefield where men had to fight for the sake of universal love and brotherhood, instead of a more or less large share of booty. "Poor old chap!" he said, after he had heard the doctor's account of Teresa. "He'll never be able to keep the place going by himself. I shall be sorry." "He's quite alone up there," grunted Doctor Monygham, with a toss of his heavy head towards the narrow staircase. "Every living soul has cleared out, and Mrs. Gould took the girls away just now. It might not be over-safe for them out here before very long. Of course, as a doctor I can do nothing more here; but she has asked me to stay with old Viola, and as I have no horse to get back to the mine, where I ought to be, I made no difficulty to stay. They can do without me in the town." "I have a good mind to remain with you, doctor, till we see whether anything happens to-night at the harbour," declared the engineer-in-chief. "He must not be molested by Sotillo's soldiery, who may push on as far as this at once. Sotillo used to be very cordial to me at the Goulds' and at the club. How that man'll ever dare to look any of his friends here in the face

brought

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

was completely wet), disclosed to the toiling Decoud the eagerness of his face, bent low over the box of the compass, and the attentive stare of his eyes. He knew now where he was, and he hoped to run the sinking lighter ashore in the shallow cove where the high, cliff-like end of the Great Isabel is divided in two equal parts by a deep and overgrown ravine. Decoud pumped without intermission. Nostromo steered without relaxing for a second the intense, peering effort of his stare. Each of them was as if utterly alone with his task. It did not occur to them to speak. There was nothing in common between them but the knowledge that the damaged lighter must be slowly but surely sinking. In that knowledge, which was like the crucial test of their desires, they seemed to have become completely estranged, as if they had discovered in the very shock of the collision that the loss of the lighter would not mean the same thing to them both. This common danger brought their differences in aim, in view, in character, and in position, into absolute prominence in the private vision of each. There was no bond of conviction, of common idea; they were merely two adventurers pursuing each his own adventure, involved in the same imminence of deadly peril. Therefore they had nothing to say to each other. But this peril, this only incontrovertible truth in which they shared, seemed to act as an inspiration to their mental and bodily powers. There was certainly something almost miraculous in the way the Capataz made the cove with nothing but the shadowy hint of the island's shape and the vague gleam of a small sandy strip for a guide. Where the ravine opens between the cliffs, and a slender, shallow rivulet meanders out of the bushes to lose itself in the sea, the lighter was run ashore; and the two men, with a taciturn, undaunted energy, began to discharge her precious freight, carrying each ox-hide box up the bed of the rivulet beyond the bushes to a hollow place which the caving in of the soil had made below the roots of a large tree. Its big smooth trunk leaned like a falling column far over the trickle of water running amongst the loose stones. A couple of years before Nostromo had spent a whole Sunday, all alone, exploring the island. He explained this to Decoud after their task was done, and they sat, weary in every limb, with their legs hanging down the low bank, and their backs against the tree, like a pair of blind men aware of each other and their surroundings by some indefinable sixth sense. "Yes," Nostromo repeated, "I never forget a place I have carefully looked at once." He spoke slowly, almost lazily, as if there had been a whole leisurely life before him, instead of the scanty two hours before daylight. The existence of the treasure, barely concealed in this improbable spot, laid a burden of secrecy upon every contemplated step, upon every intention and plan of future conduct. He felt the partial failure of this desperate affair entrusted to the great reputation he had known how to make for himself. However, it was also a partial success. His vanity was half appeased. His nervous irritation had subsided. "You never know what may be of use," he pursued with his usual quietness of tone and manner. "I spent a whole miserable Sunday in exploring this crumb of land." "A misanthropic sort of occupation," muttered Decoud, viciously. "You had no money, I suppose, to gamble with, and to fling about amongst the girls in your usual haunts, Capataz." "_E vero!_" exclaimed the Capataz, surprised into the use of his native tongue by so much perspicacity. "I had not! Therefore I did not want to go amongst those beggarly people accustomed to my generosity. It is looked for from the Capataz of the Cargadores, who are the rich men, and, as it were, the Caballeros amongst the common people. I don't care for cards but as a pastime; and as to those girls that boast of having opened their doors to my knock, you know I wouldn't look at any one of them twice except for what the people would say. They are queer, the good people of Sulaco, and I have got much useful information simply by listening patiently to the talk of the women that everybody believed I was in love with. Poor Teresa could never understand that. On that particular Sunday, senor, she scolded so that I went out of the house swearing that I would never darken their door again unless to fetch away my hammock and my chest of clothes. Senor, there is nothing more exasperating than to hear a woman you respect rail against your good reputation when you have not a single brass coin in your pocket. I untied one of the small boats and pulled myself out of the harbour with nothing but three cigars in my pocket to help me spend the day on this island. But the water of this rivulet you hear under your feet is cool and sweet and good, senor, both before and after a smoke." He was silent for a while, then added reflectively, "That was the first Sunday after I brought down the white-whiskered English rico all the way down the mountains from the Paramo on the top of the Entrada Pass--and in the coach, too! No coach had gone up or down that mountain road within the memory of man, senor, till I brought this one down in charge of fifty peons working like one man with ropes, pickaxes, and poles under my direction. That was the rich Englishman who, as people say, pays for the making of this railway. He was very pleased with me. But my wages were not due till the end of the month." He slid down the bank suddenly. Decoud heard the splash of his feet in the brook and followed his footsteps down the ravine. His form was lost among the bushes till he had reached the strip of sand under the cliff. As often happens in the gulf when the showers during the first part of the night had been frequent and heavy, the darkness had thinned considerably towards the morning though there were no signs of daylight as yet. The cargo-lighter, relieved of its precious burden, rocked feebly, half-afloat, with her fore-foot on the sand. A long rope stretched away like a black cotton thread across the strip of white beach to the grapnel Nostromo had carried ashore and hooked to the stem of a tree-like shrub in the very opening of the ravine. There was nothing for Decoud but to remain on the island. He received from Nostromo's hands whatever food the foresight of Captain Mitchell had put on board the lighter and deposited it temporarily in the little dinghy which on their arrival they had hauled up out of sight amongst the bushes. It was to be left with him. The island was to be a hiding-place, not a prison; he could pull out to a passing ship. The O.S.N. Company's mail boats passed close to the islands when going into Sulaco from the north. But the Minerva, carrying off the ex-president, had taken the news up north of the disturbances in Sulaco. It was possible that the next steamer down would get instructions to miss the port altogether since the town, as far as the Minerva's officers knew, was for the time being in the hands of the rabble. This would mean that there would be no steamer for a month, as far as the mail service went; but Decoud had to take his chance of that. The island was his only shelter from the proscription hanging over his head. The Capataz was, of course, going back. The unloaded lighter leaked much less, and he thought that she would keep afloat as far as the harbour. He passed to Decoud, standing knee-deep alongside, one of the two spades which belonged to the equipment of each lighter for use when ballasting ships. By working with it carefully as soon as there was daylight enough to see, Decoud could loosen a mass of earth and stones overhanging the cavity in which they had deposited the treasure, so that it would look as if it had fallen naturally. It would cover up not only the cavity, but even all traces of their work, the footsteps, the displaced stones, and even the broken bushes. "Besides, who would think of looking either for you or the treasure here?" Nostromo continued, as if he could not tear himself away from the spot. "Nobody is ever likely to come here. What could any man want with this piece of earth as long as there is room for his feet on the mainland! The people in this country are not curious. There are even no fishermen here to intrude upon your worship. All the fishing that is done in the gulf goes on near Zapiga, over there. Senor, if you are forced to leave this island before anything can be arranged for you, do not try to make for Zapiga. It is a settlement of thieves and matreros, where they would cut your throat promptly for the sake of your gold watch and chain. And, senor, think twice before confiding in any one whatever; even in the officers of the Company's steamers, if you ever get on board one. Honesty alone is not enough for security. You must look to discretion and prudence in a man. And always remember, senor, before you open your lips for a confidence, that this treasure may be left safely here for hundreds of years. Time is on its side, senor. And silver is an incorruptible metal that can be trusted to keep its value for ever. . . . An incorruptible metal," he repeated, as if the idea had given him a profound pleasure. "As some men are said to be," Decoud pronounced, inscrutably, while the Capataz, who busied himself in baling out the lighter with a wooden bucket, went on throwing the water over the side with a regular splash. Decoud, incorrigible in his scepticism, reflected, not cynically, but with general satisfaction, that this man was made incorruptible by his enormous vanity, that finest form of egoism which can take on the aspect of every virtue. Nostromo ceased baling, and, as if struck with a sudden thought, dropped the bucket with a clatter into the lighter. "Have you any message?" he asked in a lowered voice. "Remember, I shall be asked questions." "You must find the hopeful words that ought to be spoken to the people in town. I trust for that your intelligence and your experience, Capataz. You understand?" "Si, senor. . . . For the ladies." "Yes, yes," said Decoud, hastily. "Your wonderful reputation will make them attach great value to your words; therefore be careful what you say. I am looking forward," he continued, feeling the fatal touch of contempt for himself to which his complex nature was subject, "I am looking forward to a glorious and successful ending to my mission. Do you hear, Capataz? Use the words glorious and successful when you speak to the senorita. Your own mission is accomplished gloriously and successfully. You have indubitably saved the silver of the mine. Not only this silver, but probably all the silver that shall ever come out of it." Nostromo detected the ironic tone. "I dare say, Senor Don Martin," he said, moodily. "There are very few things that I am not equal to. Ask the foreign signori. I, a man of the people, who cannot always understand what you mean. But as to this lot which I must leave here, let me tell you that I would believe it in greater safety if you had not been with me at all." An exclamation escaped Decoud, and a short pause followed. "Shall I go back with you to Sulaco?" he asked in an angry tone. "Shall I strike you dead with my knife where you stand?" retorted Nostromo, contemptuously. "It would be the same thing as taking you to Sulaco. Come, senor. Your reputation is in your politics, and mine is bound up with the fate of this silver. Do you wonder I wish there had been no other man to share my knowledge? I wanted no one with me, senor." "You could not have kept the lighter afloat without me," Decoud almost shouted. "You would have gone to the bottom with her." "Yes," uttered Nostromo, slowly; "alone." Here was a man, Decoud reflected, that seemed as though he would have preferred to die rather than deface the perfect form of his egoism. Such a man was safe. In silence he helped the Capataz to get the grapnel on board. Nostromo cleared the shelving shore with one push of the heavy oar, and Decoud found himself solitary on the beach like a man in a dream. A sudden desire to hear a human voice once more seized upon his heart. The lighter was hardly distinguishable from the black water upon which she floated. "What do you think has become of Hirsch?" he shouted. "Knocked overboard and drowned," cried Nostromo's voice confidently out of the black wastes of sky and sea around the islet. "Keep close in the ravine, senor. I shall try to come out to you in a night or two." A slight swishing rustle showed that Nostromo was setting the sail. It filled all at once with a sound as of a single loud drum-tap. Decoud went back to the ravine. Nostromo, at the tiller, looked back from time to time at the vanishing mass of the Great Isabel, which, little by little, merged into the uniform texture of the night. At last, when he turned his head again, he saw nothing but a smooth darkness, like a solid wall. Then he, too, experienced that feeling of solitude which had weighed heavily on Decoud after the lighter had slipped off the shore. But while the man on the island was oppressed by a bizarre sense of unreality affecting the very ground upon which he walked, the mind of the Capataz of the Cargadores turned alertly to the problem of future conduct. Nostromo's faculties, working on parallel lines, enabled him to steer straight, to keep a look-out for Hermosa, near which he had to pass, and to try to imagine what would happen tomorrow in Sulaco. To-morrow, or, as a matter of fact, to-day, since the dawn was not very far, Sotillo would find out in what way the treasure had gone. A gang of Cargadores had been employed in loading it into a railway truck from the Custom House store-rooms, and running the truck on to the wharf. There would be arrests made, and certainly before noon Sotillo would know in what manner the silver had left Sulaco, and who it was that took it out. Nostromo's intention had been to sail right into the harbour; but at this thought by a sudden touch of the tiller he threw the lighter into the wind and checked her rapid way. His re-appearance with the very boat would raise suspicions, would cause surmises, would absolutely put Sotillo on the track. He himself would be arrested; and once in the Calabozo there was no saying what they would do to him to make him speak. He trusted himself, but he stood up to look round. Near by, Hermosa showed low its white surface as flat as a table, with the slight run of the sea raised by the breeze washing over its edges noisily. The lighter must be sunk at once. He allowed her to drift with her sail aback. There was already a good deal of water in her. He allowed her to drift towards the harbour entrance, and, letting the tiller swing about, squatted down and busied himself in loosening the plug. With that out she would fill very quickly, and every lighter carried a little iron ballast--enough to make her go down when full of water. When he stood up again the noisy wash about the Hermosa sounded far away, almost inaudible; and already he could make out the shape of land about the harbour entrance. This was a desperate affair, and he was a good swimmer. A mile was nothing to him, and he knew of an easy place for landing just below the earthworks of the old abandoned fort. It occurred to him with a peculiar fascination that this fort was a good place in which to sleep the day through after so many sleepless nights. With one blow of the tiller he unshipped for the purpose, he knocked the plug out, but did not take the trouble to lower the sail. He felt the water welling up heavily about his legs before he leaped on to the taffrail. There, upright and motionless, in his shirt and trousers only, he stood waiting. When he had felt her settle he sprang far away with a mighty splash. At once he turned his head. The gloomy, clouded dawn from behind the mountains showed him on the smooth waters the upper corner of the sail, a dark wet triangle of canvas waving slightly to and fro. He saw it vanish, as if jerked under, and then struck out for the shore. PART THIRD THE LIGHTHOUSE CHAPTER ONE Directly the cargo boat had slipped away from the wharf and got lost in the darkness of the harbour the Europeans of Sulaco separated, to prepare for the coming of the Monterist regime, which was approaching Sulaco from the mountains, as well as from the sea. This bit of manual work in loading the silver was their last concerted action. It ended the three days of danger, during which, according to the newspaper press of Europe, their energy had preserved the town from the calamities of popular disorder. At the shore end of the jetty, Captain Mitchell said good-night and turned back. His intention was to walk the planks of the wharf till the steamer from Esmeralda turned up. The engineers of the railway staff, collecting their Basque and Italian workmen, marched them away to the railway yards, leaving the Custom House, so well defended on the first day of the riot, standing open to the four winds of heaven. Their men had conducted themselves bravely and faithfully during the famous "three days" of Sulaco. In a great part this faithfulness and that courage had been exercised in self-defence rather than in the cause of those material interests to which Charles Gould had pinned his faith. Amongst the cries of the mob not the least loud had been the cry of death to foreigners. It was, indeed, a lucky circumstance for Sulaco that the relations of those imported workmen with the people of the country had been uniformly bad from the first. Doctor Monygham, going to the door of Viola's kitchen, observed this retreat marking the end of the foreign interference, this withdrawal of the army of material progress from the field of Costaguana revolutions. Algarrobe torches carried on the outskirts of the moving body sent their penetrating aroma into his nostrils. Their light, sweeping along the front of the house, made the letters of the inscription, "Albergo d'ltalia Una," leap out black from end to end of the long wall. His eyes blinked in the clear blaze. Several young men, mostly fair and tall, shepherding this mob of dark bronzed heads, surmounted by the glint of slanting rifle barrels, nodded to him familiarly as they went by. The doctor was a well-known character. Some of them wondered what he was doing there. Then, on the flank of their workmen they tramped on, following the line of rails. "Withdrawing your people from the harbour?" said the doctor, addressing himself to the chief engineer of the railway, who had accompanied Charles Gould so far on his way to the town, walking by the side of the horse, with his hand on the saddle-bow. They had stopped just outside the open door to let the workmen cross the road. "As quick as I can. We are not a political faction," answered the engineer, meaningly. "And we are not going to give our new rulers a handle against the railway. You approve me, Gould?" "Absolutely," said Charles Gould's impassive voice, high up and outside the dim parallelogram of light falling on the road through the open door. With Sotillo expected from one side, and Pedro Montero from the other, the engineer-in-chief's only anxiety now was to avoid a collision with either. Sulaco, for him, was a railway station, a terminus, workshops, a great accumulation of stores. As against the mob the railway defended its property, but politically the railway was neutral. He was a brave man; and in that spirit of neutrality he had carried proposals of truce to the self-appointed chiefs of the popular party, the deputies Fuentes and Gamacho. Bullets were still flying about when he had crossed the Plaza on that mission, waving above his head a white napkin belonging to the table linen of the Amarilla Club. He was rather proud of this exploit; and reflecting that the doctor, busy all day with the wounded in the patio of the Casa Gould, had not had time to hear the news, he began a succinct narrative. He had communicated to them the intelligence from the Construction Camp as to Pedro Montero. The brother of the victorious general, he had assured them, could be expected at Sulaco at any time now. This news (as he anticipated), when shouted out of the window by Senor Gamacho, induced a rush of the mob along the Campo Road towards Rincon. The two deputies also, after shaking hands with him effusively, mounted and galloped off to meet the great man. "I have misled them a little as to the time," the chief engineer confessed. "However hard he rides, he can scarcely get here before the morning. But my object is attained. I've secured several hours' peace for the losing party. But I did not tell them anything about Sotillo, for fear they would take it into their heads to try to get hold of the harbour again, either to oppose him or welcome him--there's no saying which. There was Gould's silver, on which rests the remnant of our hopes. Decoud's retreat had to be thought of, too. I think the railway has done pretty well by its friends without compromising itself hopelessly. Now the parties must be left to themselves." "Costaguana for the Costaguaneros," interjected the doctor, sardonically. "It is a fine country, and they have raised a fine crop of hates, vengeance, murder, and rapine--those sons of the country." "Well, I am one of them," Charles Gould's voice sounded, calmly, "and I must be going on to see to my own crop of trouble. My wife has driven straight on, doctor?" "Yes. All was quiet on this side. Mrs. Gould has taken the two girls with her." Charles Gould rode on, and the engineer-in-chief followed the doctor indoors. "That man is calmness personified," he said, appreciatively, dropping on a bench, and stretching his well-shaped legs in cycling stockings nearly across the doorway. "He must be extremely sure of himself." "If that's all he is sure of, then he is sure of nothing," said the doctor. He had perched himself again on the end of the table. He nursed his cheek in the palm of one hand, while the other sustained the elbow. "It is the last thing a man ought to be sure of." The candle, half-consumed and burning dimly with a long wick, lighted up from below his inclined face, whose expression affected by the drawn-in cicatrices in the cheeks, had something vaguely unnatural, an exaggerated remorseful bitterness. As he sat there he had the air of meditating upon sinister things. The engineer-in-chief gazed at him for a time before he protested. "I really don't see that. For me there seems to be nothing else. However----" He was a wise man, but he could not quite conceal his contempt for that sort of paradox; in fact. Dr. Monygham was not liked by the Europeans of Sulaco. His outward aspect of an outcast, which he preserved even in Mrs. Gould's drawing-room, provoked unfavourable criticism. There could be no doubt of his intelligence; and as he had lived for over twenty years in the country, the pessimism of his outlook could not be altogether ignored. But instinctively, in self-defence of their activities and hopes, his hearers put it to the account of some hidden imperfection in the man's character. It was known that many years before, when quite young, he had been made by Guzman Bento chief medical officer of the army. Not one of the Europeans then in the service of Costaguana had been so much liked and trusted by the fierce old Dictator. Afterwards his story was not so clear. It lost itself amongst the innumerable tales of conspiracies and plots against the tyrant as a stream is lost in an arid belt of sandy country before it emerges, diminished and troubled, perhaps, on the other side. The doctor made no secret of it that he had lived for years in the wildest parts of the Republic, wandering with almost unknown Indian tribes in the great forests of the far interior where the great rivers have their sources. But it was mere aimless wandering; he had written nothing, collected nothing, brought nothing for science out of the twilight of the forests, which seemed to cling to his battered personality limping about Sulaco, where it had drifted in casually, only to get stranded on the shores of the sea. It was also known that he had lived in a state of destitution till the arrival of the Goulds from Europe. Don Carlos and Dona Emilia had taken up the mad English doctor, when it became apparent that for all his savage independence he could be tamed by kindness. Perhaps it was only hunger that had tamed him. In years gone by he had certainly been acquainted with Charles Gould's father in Sta. Marta; and now, no matter what were the dark passages of his history, as the medical officer of the San Tome mine he became a recognized personality. He was recognized, but not unreservedly accepted. So much defiant eccentricity and such an outspoken scorn for mankind seemed to point to mere recklessness of judgment, the bravado of guilt. Besides, since he had become again of some account, vague whispers had been heard that years ago, when fallen into disgrace and thrown into prison by Guzman Bento at the time of the so-called Great Conspiracy, he had betrayed some of his best friends amongst the conspirators. Nobody pretended to believe that whisper; the whole story of the Great Conspiracy was hopelessly involved and obscure; it is admitted in Costaguana that there never had been a conspiracy except in the diseased imagination of the Tyrant; and, therefore, nothing and no one to betray; though the most distinguished Costaguaneros had been imprisoned and executed upon that accusation. The procedure had dragged on for years, decimating the better class like a pestilence. The mere expression of sorrow for the fate of executed kinsmen had been punished with death. Don Jose Avellanos was perhaps the only one living who knew the whole story of those unspeakable cruelties. He had suffered from them himself, and he, with a shrug of the shoulders and a nervous, jerky gesture of the arm, was wont to put away from him, as it were, every allusion to it. But whatever the reason, Dr. Monygham, a personage in the administration of the Gould Concession, treated with reverent awe by the miners, and indulged in his peculiarities by Mrs. Gould, remained somehow outside the pale. It was not from any liking for the doctor that the engineer-in-chief had lingered in the inn upon the plain. He liked old Viola much better. He had come to look upon the Albergo d'ltalia Una as a dependence of the railway. Many of his subordinates had their quarters there. Mrs. Gould's interest in the family conferred upon it a sort of distinction. The engineer-in-chief, with an army of workers under his orders, appreciated the moral influence of the old Garibaldino upon his countrymen. His austere, old-world Republicanism had a severe, soldier-like standard of faithfulness and duty, as if the world were a battlefield where men had to fight for the sake of universal love and brotherhood, instead of a more or less large share of booty. "Poor old chap!" he said, after he had heard the doctor's account of Teresa. "He'll never be able to keep the place going by himself. I shall be sorry." "He's quite alone up there," grunted Doctor Monygham, with a toss of his heavy head towards the narrow staircase. "Every living soul has cleared out, and Mrs. Gould took the girls away just now. It might not be over-safe for them out here before very long. Of course, as a doctor I can do nothing more here; but she has asked me to stay with old Viola, and as I have no horse to get back to the mine, where I ought to be, I made no difficulty to stay. They can do without me in the town." "I have a good mind to remain with you, doctor, till we see whether anything happens to-night at the harbour," declared the engineer-in-chief. "He must not be molested by Sotillo's soldiery, who may push on as far as this at once. Sotillo used to be very cordial to me at the Goulds' and at the club. How that man'll ever dare to look any of his friends here in the face

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was completely wet), disclosed to the toiling Decoud the eagerness of his face, bent low over the box of the compass, and the attentive stare of his eyes. He knew now where he was, and he hoped to run the sinking lighter ashore in the shallow cove where the high, cliff-like end of the Great Isabel is divided in two equal parts by a deep and overgrown ravine. Decoud pumped without intermission. Nostromo steered without relaxing for a second the intense, peering effort of his stare. Each of them was as if utterly alone with his task. It did not occur to them to speak. There was nothing in common between them but the knowledge that the damaged lighter must be slowly but surely sinking. In that knowledge, which was like the crucial test of their desires, they seemed to have become completely estranged, as if they had discovered in the very shock of the collision that the loss of the lighter would not mean the same thing to them both. This common danger brought their differences in aim, in view, in character, and in position, into absolute prominence in the private vision of each. There was no bond of conviction, of common idea; they were merely two adventurers pursuing each his own adventure, involved in the same imminence of deadly peril. Therefore they had nothing to say to each other. But this peril, this only incontrovertible truth in which they shared, seemed to act as an inspiration to their mental and bodily powers. There was certainly something almost miraculous in the way the Capataz made the cove with nothing but the shadowy hint of the island's shape and the vague gleam of a small sandy strip for a guide. Where the ravine opens between the cliffs, and a slender, shallow rivulet meanders out of the bushes to lose itself in the sea, the lighter was run ashore; and the two men, with a taciturn, undaunted energy, began to discharge her precious freight, carrying each ox-hide box up the bed of the rivulet beyond the bushes to a hollow place which the caving in of the soil had made below the roots of a large tree. Its big smooth trunk leaned like a falling column far over the trickle of water running amongst the loose stones. A couple of years before Nostromo had spent a whole Sunday, all alone, exploring the island. He explained this to Decoud after their task was done, and they sat, weary in every limb, with their legs hanging down the low bank, and their backs against the tree, like a pair of blind men aware of each other and their surroundings by some indefinable sixth sense. "Yes," Nostromo repeated, "I never forget a place I have carefully looked at once." He spoke slowly, almost lazily, as if there had been a whole leisurely life before him, instead of the scanty two hours before daylight. The existence of the treasure, barely concealed in this improbable spot, laid a burden of secrecy upon every contemplated step, upon every intention and plan of future conduct. He felt the partial failure of this desperate affair entrusted to the great reputation he had known how to make for himself. However, it was also a partial success. His vanity was half appeased. His nervous irritation had subsided. "You never know what may be of use," he pursued with his usual quietness of tone and manner. "I spent a whole miserable Sunday in exploring this crumb of land." "A misanthropic sort of occupation," muttered Decoud, viciously. "You had no money, I suppose, to gamble with, and to fling about amongst the girls in your usual haunts, Capataz." "_E vero!_" exclaimed the Capataz, surprised into the use of his native tongue by so much perspicacity. "I had not! Therefore I did not want to go amongst those beggarly people accustomed to my generosity. It is looked for from the Capataz of the Cargadores, who are the rich men, and, as it were, the Caballeros amongst the common people. I don't care for cards but as a pastime; and as to those girls that boast of having opened their doors to my knock, you know I wouldn't look at any one of them twice except for what the people would say. They are queer, the good people of Sulaco, and I have got much useful information simply by listening patiently to the talk of the women that everybody believed I was in love with. Poor Teresa could never understand that. On that particular Sunday, senor, she scolded so that I went out of the house swearing that I would never darken their door again unless to fetch away my hammock and my chest of clothes. Senor, there is nothing more exasperating than to hear a woman you respect rail against your good reputation when you have not a single brass coin in your pocket. I untied one of the small boats and pulled myself out of the harbour with nothing but three cigars in my pocket to help me spend the day on this island. But the water of this rivulet you hear under your feet is cool and sweet and good, senor, both before and after a smoke." He was silent for a while, then added reflectively, "That was the first Sunday after I brought down the white-whiskered English rico all the way down the mountains from the Paramo on the top of the Entrada Pass--and in the coach, too! No coach had gone up or down that mountain road within the memory of man, senor, till I brought this one down in charge of fifty peons working like one man with ropes, pickaxes, and poles under my direction. That was the rich Englishman who, as people say, pays for the making of this railway. He was very pleased with me. But my wages were not due till the end of the month." He slid down the bank suddenly. Decoud heard the splash of his feet in the brook and followed his footsteps down the ravine. His form was lost among the bushes till he had reached the strip of sand under the cliff. As often happens in the gulf when the showers during the first part of the night had been frequent and heavy, the darkness had thinned considerably towards the morning though there were no signs of daylight as yet. The cargo-lighter, relieved of its precious burden, rocked feebly, half-afloat, with her fore-foot on the sand. A long rope stretched away like a black cotton thread across the strip of white beach to the grapnel Nostromo had carried ashore and hooked to the stem of a tree-like shrub in the very opening of the ravine. There was nothing for Decoud but to remain on the island. He received from Nostromo's hands whatever food the foresight of Captain Mitchell had put on board the lighter and deposited it temporarily in the little dinghy which on their arrival they had hauled up out of sight amongst the bushes. It was to be left with him. The island was to be a hiding-place, not a prison; he could pull out to a passing ship. The O.S.N. Company's mail boats passed close to the islands when going into Sulaco from the north. But the Minerva, carrying off the ex-president, had taken the news up north of the disturbances in Sulaco. It was possible that the next steamer down would get instructions to miss the port altogether since the town, as far as the Minerva's officers knew, was for the time being in the hands of the rabble. This would mean that there would be no steamer for a month, as far as the mail service went; but Decoud had to take his chance of that. The island was his only shelter from the proscription hanging over his head. The Capataz was, of course, going back. The unloaded lighter leaked much less, and he thought that she would keep afloat as far as the harbour. He passed to Decoud, standing knee-deep alongside, one of the two spades which belonged to the equipment of each lighter for use when ballasting ships. By working with it carefully as soon as there was daylight enough to see, Decoud could loosen a mass of earth and stones overhanging the cavity in which they had deposited the treasure, so that it would look as if it had fallen naturally. It would cover up not only the cavity, but even all traces of their work, the footsteps, the displaced stones, and even the broken bushes. "Besides, who would think of looking either for you or the treasure here?" Nostromo continued, as if he could not tear himself away from the spot. "Nobody is ever likely to come here. What could any man want with this piece of earth as long as there is room for his feet on the mainland! The people in this country are not curious. There are even no fishermen here to intrude upon your worship. All the fishing that is done in the gulf goes on near Zapiga, over there. Senor, if you are forced to leave this island before anything can be arranged for you, do not try to make for Zapiga. It is a settlement of thieves and matreros, where they would cut your throat promptly for the sake of your gold watch and chain. And, senor, think twice before confiding in any one whatever; even in the officers of the Company's steamers, if you ever get on board one. Honesty alone is not enough for security. You must look to discretion and prudence in a man. And always remember, senor, before you open your lips for a confidence, that this treasure may be left safely here for hundreds of years. Time is on its side, senor. And silver is an incorruptible metal that can be trusted to keep its value for ever. . . . An incorruptible metal," he repeated, as if the idea had given him a profound pleasure. "As some men are said to be," Decoud pronounced, inscrutably, while the Capataz, who busied himself in baling out the lighter with a wooden bucket, went on throwing the water over the side with a regular splash. Decoud, incorrigible in his scepticism, reflected, not cynically, but with general satisfaction, that this man was made incorruptible by his enormous vanity, that finest form of egoism which can take on the aspect of every virtue. Nostromo ceased baling, and, as if struck with a sudden thought, dropped the bucket with a clatter into the lighter. "Have you any message?" he asked in a lowered voice. "Remember, I shall be asked questions." "You must find the hopeful words that ought to be spoken to the people in town. I trust for that your intelligence and your experience, Capataz. You understand?" "Si, senor. . . . For the ladies." "Yes, yes," said Decoud, hastily. "Your wonderful reputation will make them attach great value to your words; therefore be careful what you say. I am looking forward," he continued, feeling the fatal touch of contempt for himself to which his complex nature was subject, "I am looking forward to a glorious and successful ending to my mission. Do you hear, Capataz? Use the words glorious and successful when you speak to the senorita. Your own mission is accomplished gloriously and successfully. You have indubitably saved the silver of the mine. Not only this silver, but probably all the silver that shall ever come out of it." Nostromo detected the ironic tone. "I dare say, Senor Don Martin," he said, moodily. "There are very few things that I am not equal to. Ask the foreign signori. I, a man of the people, who cannot always understand what you mean. But as to this lot which I must leave here, let me tell you that I would believe it in greater safety if you had not been with me at all." An exclamation escaped Decoud, and a short pause followed. "Shall I go back with you to Sulaco?" he asked in an angry tone. "Shall I strike you dead with my knife where you stand?" retorted Nostromo, contemptuously. "It would be the same thing as taking you to Sulaco. Come, senor. Your reputation is in your politics, and mine is bound up with the fate of this silver. Do you wonder I wish there had been no other man to share my knowledge? I wanted no one with me, senor." "You could not have kept the lighter afloat without me," Decoud almost shouted. "You would have gone to the bottom with her." "Yes," uttered Nostromo, slowly; "alone." Here was a man, Decoud reflected, that seemed as though he would have preferred to die rather than deface the perfect form of his egoism. Such a man was safe. In silence he helped the Capataz to get the grapnel on board. Nostromo cleared the shelving shore with one push of the heavy oar, and Decoud found himself solitary on the beach like a man in a dream. A sudden desire to hear a human voice once more seized upon his heart. The lighter was hardly distinguishable from the black water upon which she floated. "What do you think has become of Hirsch?" he shouted. "Knocked overboard and drowned," cried Nostromo's voice confidently out of the black wastes of sky and sea around the islet. "Keep close in the ravine, senor. I shall try to come out to you in a night or two." A slight swishing rustle showed that Nostromo was setting the sail. It filled all at once with a sound as of a single loud drum-tap. Decoud went back to the ravine. Nostromo, at the tiller, looked back from time to time at the vanishing mass of the Great Isabel, which, little by little, merged into the uniform texture of the night. At last, when he turned his head again, he saw nothing but a smooth darkness, like a solid wall. Then he, too, experienced that feeling of solitude which had weighed heavily on Decoud after the lighter had slipped off the shore. But while the man on the island was oppressed by a bizarre sense of unreality affecting the very ground upon which he walked, the mind of the Capataz of the Cargadores turned alertly to the problem of future conduct. Nostromo's faculties, working on parallel lines, enabled him to steer straight, to keep a look-out for Hermosa, near which he had to pass, and to try to imagine what would happen tomorrow in Sulaco. To-morrow, or, as a matter of fact, to-day, since the dawn was not very far, Sotillo would find out in what way the treasure had gone. A gang of Cargadores had been employed in loading it into a railway truck from the Custom House store-rooms, and running the truck on to the wharf. There would be arrests made, and certainly before noon Sotillo would know in what manner the silver had left Sulaco, and who it was that took it out. Nostromo's intention had been to sail right into the harbour; but at this thought by a sudden touch of the tiller he threw the lighter into the wind and checked her rapid way. His re-appearance with the very boat would raise suspicions, would cause surmises, would absolutely put Sotillo on the track. He himself would be arrested; and once in the Calabozo there was no saying what they would do to him to make him speak. He trusted himself, but he stood up to look round. Near by, Hermosa showed low its white surface as flat as a table, with the slight run of the sea raised by the breeze washing over its edges noisily. The lighter must be sunk at once. He allowed her to drift with her sail aback. There was already a good deal of water in her. He allowed her to drift towards the harbour entrance, and, letting the tiller swing about, squatted down and busied himself in loosening the plug. With that out she would fill very quickly, and every lighter carried a little iron ballast--enough to make her go down when full of water. When he stood up again the noisy wash about the Hermosa sounded far away, almost inaudible; and already he could make out the shape of land about the harbour entrance. This was a desperate affair, and he was a good swimmer. A mile was nothing to him, and he knew of an easy place for landing just below the earthworks of the old abandoned fort. It occurred to him with a peculiar fascination that this fort was a good place in which to sleep the day through after so many sleepless nights. With one blow of the tiller he unshipped for the purpose, he knocked the plug out, but did not take the trouble to lower the sail. He felt the water welling up heavily about his legs before he leaped on to the taffrail. There, upright and motionless, in his shirt and trousers only, he stood waiting. When he had felt her settle he sprang far away with a mighty splash. At once he turned his head. The gloomy, clouded dawn from behind the mountains showed him on the smooth waters the upper corner of the sail, a dark wet triangle of canvas waving slightly to and fro. He saw it vanish, as if jerked under, and then struck out for the shore. PART THIRD THE LIGHTHOUSE CHAPTER ONE Directly the cargo boat had slipped away from the wharf and got lost in the darkness of the harbour the Europeans of Sulaco separated, to prepare for the coming of the Monterist regime, which was approaching Sulaco from the mountains, as well as from the sea. This bit of manual work in loading the silver was their last concerted action. It ended the three days of danger, during which, according to the newspaper press of Europe, their energy had preserved the town from the calamities of popular disorder. At the shore end of the jetty, Captain Mitchell said good-night and turned back. His intention was to walk the planks of the wharf till the steamer from Esmeralda turned up. The engineers of the railway staff, collecting their Basque and Italian workmen, marched them away to the railway yards, leaving the Custom House, so well defended on the first day of the riot, standing open to the four winds of heaven. Their men had conducted themselves bravely and faithfully during the famous "three days" of Sulaco. In a great part this faithfulness and that courage had been exercised in self-defence rather than in the cause of those material interests to which Charles Gould had pinned his faith. Amongst the cries of the mob not the least loud had been the cry of death to foreigners. It was, indeed, a lucky circumstance for Sulaco that the relations of those imported workmen with the people of the country had been uniformly bad from the first. Doctor Monygham, going to the door of Viola's kitchen, observed this retreat marking the end of the foreign interference, this withdrawal of the army of material progress from the field of Costaguana revolutions. Algarrobe torches carried on the outskirts of the moving body sent their penetrating aroma into his nostrils. Their light, sweeping along the front of the house, made the letters of the inscription, "Albergo d'ltalia Una," leap out black from end to end of the long wall. His eyes blinked in the clear blaze. Several young men, mostly fair and tall, shepherding this mob of dark bronzed heads, surmounted by the glint of slanting rifle barrels, nodded to him familiarly as they went by. The doctor was a well-known character. Some of them wondered what he was doing there. Then, on the flank of their workmen they tramped on, following the line of rails. "Withdrawing your people from the harbour?" said the doctor, addressing himself to the chief engineer of the railway, who had accompanied Charles Gould so far on his way to the town, walking by the side of the horse, with his hand on the saddle-bow. They had stopped just outside the open door to let the workmen cross the road. "As quick as I can. We are not a political faction," answered the engineer, meaningly. "And we are not going to give our new rulers a handle against the railway. You approve me, Gould?" "Absolutely," said Charles Gould's impassive voice, high up and outside the dim parallelogram of light falling on the road through the open door. With Sotillo expected from one side, and Pedro Montero from the other, the engineer-in-chief's only anxiety now was to avoid a collision with either. Sulaco, for him, was a railway station, a terminus, workshops, a great accumulation of stores. As against the mob the railway defended its property, but politically the railway was neutral. He was a brave man; and in that spirit of neutrality he had carried proposals of truce to the self-appointed chiefs of the popular party, the deputies Fuentes and Gamacho. Bullets were still flying about when he had crossed the Plaza on that mission, waving above his head a white napkin belonging to the table linen of the Amarilla Club. He was rather proud of this exploit; and reflecting that the doctor, busy all day with the wounded in the patio of the Casa Gould, had not had time to hear the news, he began a succinct narrative. He had communicated to them the intelligence from the Construction Camp as to Pedro Montero. The brother of the victorious general, he had assured them, could be expected at Sulaco at any time now. This news (as he anticipated), when shouted out of the window by Senor Gamacho, induced a rush of the mob along the Campo Road towards Rincon. The two deputies also, after shaking hands with him effusively, mounted and galloped off to meet the great man. "I have misled them a little as to the time," the chief engineer confessed. "However hard he rides, he can scarcely get here before the morning. But my object is attained. I've secured several hours' peace for the losing party. But I did not tell them anything about Sotillo, for fear they would take it into their heads to try to get hold of the harbour again, either to oppose him or welcome him--there's no saying which. There was Gould's silver, on which rests the remnant of our hopes. Decoud's retreat had to be thought of, too. I think the railway has done pretty well by its friends without compromising itself hopelessly. Now the parties must be left to themselves." "Costaguana for the Costaguaneros," interjected the doctor, sardonically. "It is a fine country, and they have raised a fine crop of hates, vengeance, murder, and rapine--those sons of the country." "Well, I am one of them," Charles Gould's voice sounded, calmly, "and I must be going on to see to my own crop of trouble. My wife has driven straight on, doctor?" "Yes. All was quiet on this side. Mrs. Gould has taken the two girls with her." Charles Gould rode on, and the engineer-in-chief followed the doctor indoors. "That man is calmness personified," he said, appreciatively, dropping on a bench, and stretching his well-shaped legs in cycling stockings nearly across the doorway. "He must be extremely sure of himself." "If that's all he is sure of, then he is sure of nothing," said the doctor. He had perched himself again on the end of the table. He nursed his cheek in the palm of one hand, while the other sustained the elbow. "It is the last thing a man ought to be sure of." The candle, half-consumed and burning dimly with a long wick, lighted up from below his inclined face, whose expression affected by the drawn-in cicatrices in the cheeks, had something vaguely unnatural, an exaggerated remorseful bitterness. As he sat there he had the air of meditating upon sinister things. The engineer-in-chief gazed at him for a time before he protested. "I really don't see that. For me there seems to be nothing else. However----" He was a wise man, but he could not quite conceal his contempt for that sort of paradox; in fact. Dr. Monygham was not liked by the Europeans of Sulaco. His outward aspect of an outcast, which he preserved even in Mrs. Gould's drawing-room, provoked unfavourable criticism. There could be no doubt of his intelligence; and as he had lived for over twenty years in the country, the pessimism of his outlook could not be altogether ignored. But instinctively, in self-defence of their activities and hopes, his hearers put it to the account of some hidden imperfection in the man's character. It was known that many years before, when quite young, he had been made by Guzman Bento chief medical officer of the army. Not one of the Europeans then in the service of Costaguana had been so much liked and trusted by the fierce old Dictator. Afterwards his story was not so clear. It lost itself amongst the innumerable tales of conspiracies and plots against the tyrant as a stream is lost in an arid belt of sandy country before it emerges, diminished and troubled, perhaps, on the other side. The doctor made no secret of it that he had lived for years in the wildest parts of the Republic, wandering with almost unknown Indian tribes in the great forests of the far interior where the great rivers have their sources. But it was mere aimless wandering; he had written nothing, collected nothing, brought nothing for science out of the twilight of the forests, which seemed to cling to his battered personality limping about Sulaco, where it had drifted in casually, only to get stranded on the shores of the sea. It was also known that he had lived in a state of destitution till the arrival of the Goulds from Europe. Don Carlos and Dona Emilia had taken up the mad English doctor, when it became apparent that for all his savage independence he could be tamed by kindness. Perhaps it was only hunger that had tamed him. In years gone by he had certainly been acquainted with Charles Gould's father in Sta. Marta; and now, no matter what were the dark passages of his history, as the medical officer of the San Tome mine he became a recognized personality. He was recognized, but not unreservedly accepted. So much defiant eccentricity and such an outspoken scorn for mankind seemed to point to mere recklessness of judgment, the bravado of guilt. Besides, since he had become again of some account, vague whispers had been heard that years ago, when fallen into disgrace and thrown into prison by Guzman Bento at the time of the so-called Great Conspiracy, he had betrayed some of his best friends amongst the conspirators. Nobody pretended to believe that whisper; the whole story of the Great Conspiracy was hopelessly involved and obscure; it is admitted in Costaguana that there never had been a conspiracy except in the diseased imagination of the Tyrant; and, therefore, nothing and no one to betray; though the most distinguished Costaguaneros had been imprisoned and executed upon that accusation. The procedure had dragged on for years, decimating the better class like a pestilence. The mere expression of sorrow for the fate of executed kinsmen had been punished with death. Don Jose Avellanos was perhaps the only one living who knew the whole story of those unspeakable cruelties. He had suffered from them himself, and he, with a shrug of the shoulders and a nervous, jerky gesture of the arm, was wont to put away from him, as it were, every allusion to it. But whatever the reason, Dr. Monygham, a personage in the administration of the Gould Concession, treated with reverent awe by the miners, and indulged in his peculiarities by Mrs. Gould, remained somehow outside the pale. It was not from any liking for the doctor that the engineer-in-chief had lingered in the inn upon the plain. He liked old Viola much better. He had come to look upon the Albergo d'ltalia Una as a dependence of the railway. Many of his subordinates had their quarters there. Mrs. Gould's interest in the family conferred upon it a sort of distinction. The engineer-in-chief, with an army of workers under his orders, appreciated the moral influence of the old Garibaldino upon his countrymen. His austere, old-world Republicanism had a severe, soldier-like standard of faithfulness and duty, as if the world were a battlefield where men had to fight for the sake of universal love and brotherhood, instead of a more or less large share of booty. "Poor old chap!" he said, after he had heard the doctor's account of Teresa. "He'll never be able to keep the place going by himself. I shall be sorry." "He's quite alone up there," grunted Doctor Monygham, with a toss of his heavy head towards the narrow staircase. "Every living soul has cleared out, and Mrs. Gould took the girls away just now. It might not be over-safe for them out here before very long. Of course, as a doctor I can do nothing more here; but she has asked me to stay with old Viola, and as I have no horse to get back to the mine, where I ought to be, I made no difficulty to stay. They can do without me in the town." "I have a good mind to remain with you, doctor, till we see whether anything happens to-night at the harbour," declared the engineer-in-chief. "He must not be molested by Sotillo's soldiery, who may push on as far as this at once. Sotillo used to be very cordial to me at the Goulds' and at the club. How that man'll ever dare to look any of his friends here in the face

thousands

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

was completely wet), disclosed to the toiling Decoud the eagerness of his face, bent low over the box of the compass, and the attentive stare of his eyes. He knew now where he was, and he hoped to run the sinking lighter ashore in the shallow cove where the high, cliff-like end of the Great Isabel is divided in two equal parts by a deep and overgrown ravine. Decoud pumped without intermission. Nostromo steered without relaxing for a second the intense, peering effort of his stare. Each of them was as if utterly alone with his task. It did not occur to them to speak. There was nothing in common between them but the knowledge that the damaged lighter must be slowly but surely sinking. In that knowledge, which was like the crucial test of their desires, they seemed to have become completely estranged, as if they had discovered in the very shock of the collision that the loss of the lighter would not mean the same thing to them both. This common danger brought their differences in aim, in view, in character, and in position, into absolute prominence in the private vision of each. There was no bond of conviction, of common idea; they were merely two adventurers pursuing each his own adventure, involved in the same imminence of deadly peril. Therefore they had nothing to say to each other. But this peril, this only incontrovertible truth in which they shared, seemed to act as an inspiration to their mental and bodily powers. There was certainly something almost miraculous in the way the Capataz made the cove with nothing but the shadowy hint of the island's shape and the vague gleam of a small sandy strip for a guide. Where the ravine opens between the cliffs, and a slender, shallow rivulet meanders out of the bushes to lose itself in the sea, the lighter was run ashore; and the two men, with a taciturn, undaunted energy, began to discharge her precious freight, carrying each ox-hide box up the bed of the rivulet beyond the bushes to a hollow place which the caving in of the soil had made below the roots of a large tree. Its big smooth trunk leaned like a falling column far over the trickle of water running amongst the loose stones. A couple of years before Nostromo had spent a whole Sunday, all alone, exploring the island. He explained this to Decoud after their task was done, and they sat, weary in every limb, with their legs hanging down the low bank, and their backs against the tree, like a pair of blind men aware of each other and their surroundings by some indefinable sixth sense. "Yes," Nostromo repeated, "I never forget a place I have carefully looked at once." He spoke slowly, almost lazily, as if there had been a whole leisurely life before him, instead of the scanty two hours before daylight. The existence of the treasure, barely concealed in this improbable spot, laid a burden of secrecy upon every contemplated step, upon every intention and plan of future conduct. He felt the partial failure of this desperate affair entrusted to the great reputation he had known how to make for himself. However, it was also a partial success. His vanity was half appeased. His nervous irritation had subsided. "You never know what may be of use," he pursued with his usual quietness of tone and manner. "I spent a whole miserable Sunday in exploring this crumb of land." "A misanthropic sort of occupation," muttered Decoud, viciously. "You had no money, I suppose, to gamble with, and to fling about amongst the girls in your usual haunts, Capataz." "_E vero!_" exclaimed the Capataz, surprised into the use of his native tongue by so much perspicacity. "I had not! Therefore I did not want to go amongst those beggarly people accustomed to my generosity. It is looked for from the Capataz of the Cargadores, who are the rich men, and, as it were, the Caballeros amongst the common people. I don't care for cards but as a pastime; and as to those girls that boast of having opened their doors to my knock, you know I wouldn't look at any one of them twice except for what the people would say. They are queer, the good people of Sulaco, and I have got much useful information simply by listening patiently to the talk of the women that everybody believed I was in love with. Poor Teresa could never understand that. On that particular Sunday, senor, she scolded so that I went out of the house swearing that I would never darken their door again unless to fetch away my hammock and my chest of clothes. Senor, there is nothing more exasperating than to hear a woman you respect rail against your good reputation when you have not a single brass coin in your pocket. I untied one of the small boats and pulled myself out of the harbour with nothing but three cigars in my pocket to help me spend the day on this island. But the water of this rivulet you hear under your feet is cool and sweet and good, senor, both before and after a smoke." He was silent for a while, then added reflectively, "That was the first Sunday after I brought down the white-whiskered English rico all the way down the mountains from the Paramo on the top of the Entrada Pass--and in the coach, too! No coach had gone up or down that mountain road within the memory of man, senor, till I brought this one down in charge of fifty peons working like one man with ropes, pickaxes, and poles under my direction. That was the rich Englishman who, as people say, pays for the making of this railway. He was very pleased with me. But my wages were not due till the end of the month." He slid down the bank suddenly. Decoud heard the splash of his feet in the brook and followed his footsteps down the ravine. His form was lost among the bushes till he had reached the strip of sand under the cliff. As often happens in the gulf when the showers during the first part of the night had been frequent and heavy, the darkness had thinned considerably towards the morning though there were no signs of daylight as yet. The cargo-lighter, relieved of its precious burden, rocked feebly, half-afloat, with her fore-foot on the sand. A long rope stretched away like a black cotton thread across the strip of white beach to the grapnel Nostromo had carried ashore and hooked to the stem of a tree-like shrub in the very opening of the ravine. There was nothing for Decoud but to remain on the island. He received from Nostromo's hands whatever food the foresight of Captain Mitchell had put on board the lighter and deposited it temporarily in the little dinghy which on their arrival they had hauled up out of sight amongst the bushes. It was to be left with him. The island was to be a hiding-place, not a prison; he could pull out to a passing ship. The O.S.N. Company's mail boats passed close to the islands when going into Sulaco from the north. But the Minerva, carrying off the ex-president, had taken the news up north of the disturbances in Sulaco. It was possible that the next steamer down would get instructions to miss the port altogether since the town, as far as the Minerva's officers knew, was for the time being in the hands of the rabble. This would mean that there would be no steamer for a month, as far as the mail service went; but Decoud had to take his chance of that. The island was his only shelter from the proscription hanging over his head. The Capataz was, of course, going back. The unloaded lighter leaked much less, and he thought that she would keep afloat as far as the harbour. He passed to Decoud, standing knee-deep alongside, one of the two spades which belonged to the equipment of each lighter for use when ballasting ships. By working with it carefully as soon as there was daylight enough to see, Decoud could loosen a mass of earth and stones overhanging the cavity in which they had deposited the treasure, so that it would look as if it had fallen naturally. It would cover up not only the cavity, but even all traces of their work, the footsteps, the displaced stones, and even the broken bushes. "Besides, who would think of looking either for you or the treasure here?" Nostromo continued, as if he could not tear himself away from the spot. "Nobody is ever likely to come here. What could any man want with this piece of earth as long as there is room for his feet on the mainland! The people in this country are not curious. There are even no fishermen here to intrude upon your worship. All the fishing that is done in the gulf goes on near Zapiga, over there. Senor, if you are forced to leave this island before anything can be arranged for you, do not try to make for Zapiga. It is a settlement of thieves and matreros, where they would cut your throat promptly for the sake of your gold watch and chain. And, senor, think twice before confiding in any one whatever; even in the officers of the Company's steamers, if you ever get on board one. Honesty alone is not enough for security. You must look to discretion and prudence in a man. And always remember, senor, before you open your lips for a confidence, that this treasure may be left safely here for hundreds of years. Time is on its side, senor. And silver is an incorruptible metal that can be trusted to keep its value for ever. . . . An incorruptible metal," he repeated, as if the idea had given him a profound pleasure. "As some men are said to be," Decoud pronounced, inscrutably, while the Capataz, who busied himself in baling out the lighter with a wooden bucket, went on throwing the water over the side with a regular splash. Decoud, incorrigible in his scepticism, reflected, not cynically, but with general satisfaction, that this man was made incorruptible by his enormous vanity, that finest form of egoism which can take on the aspect of every virtue. Nostromo ceased baling, and, as if struck with a sudden thought, dropped the bucket with a clatter into the lighter. "Have you any message?" he asked in a lowered voice. "Remember, I shall be asked questions." "You must find the hopeful words that ought to be spoken to the people in town. I trust for that your intelligence and your experience, Capataz. You understand?" "Si, senor. . . . For the ladies." "Yes, yes," said Decoud, hastily. "Your wonderful reputation will make them attach great value to your words; therefore be careful what you say. I am looking forward," he continued, feeling the fatal touch of contempt for himself to which his complex nature was subject, "I am looking forward to a glorious and successful ending to my mission. Do you hear, Capataz? Use the words glorious and successful when you speak to the senorita. Your own mission is accomplished gloriously and successfully. You have indubitably saved the silver of the mine. Not only this silver, but probably all the silver that shall ever come out of it." Nostromo detected the ironic tone. "I dare say, Senor Don Martin," he said, moodily. "There are very few things that I am not equal to. Ask the foreign signori. I, a man of the people, who cannot always understand what you mean. But as to this lot which I must leave here, let me tell you that I would believe it in greater safety if you had not been with me at all." An exclamation escaped Decoud, and a short pause followed. "Shall I go back with you to Sulaco?" he asked in an angry tone. "Shall I strike you dead with my knife where you stand?" retorted Nostromo, contemptuously. "It would be the same thing as taking you to Sulaco. Come, senor. Your reputation is in your politics, and mine is bound up with the fate of this silver. Do you wonder I wish there had been no other man to share my knowledge? I wanted no one with me, senor." "You could not have kept the lighter afloat without me," Decoud almost shouted. "You would have gone to the bottom with her." "Yes," uttered Nostromo, slowly; "alone." Here was a man, Decoud reflected, that seemed as though he would have preferred to die rather than deface the perfect form of his egoism. Such a man was safe. In silence he helped the Capataz to get the grapnel on board. Nostromo cleared the shelving shore with one push of the heavy oar, and Decoud found himself solitary on the beach like a man in a dream. A sudden desire to hear a human voice once more seized upon his heart. The lighter was hardly distinguishable from the black water upon which she floated. "What do you think has become of Hirsch?" he shouted. "Knocked overboard and drowned," cried Nostromo's voice confidently out of the black wastes of sky and sea around the islet. "Keep close in the ravine, senor. I shall try to come out to you in a night or two." A slight swishing rustle showed that Nostromo was setting the sail. It filled all at once with a sound as of a single loud drum-tap. Decoud went back to the ravine. Nostromo, at the tiller, looked back from time to time at the vanishing mass of the Great Isabel, which, little by little, merged into the uniform texture of the night. At last, when he turned his head again, he saw nothing but a smooth darkness, like a solid wall. Then he, too, experienced that feeling of solitude which had weighed heavily on Decoud after the lighter had slipped off the shore. But while the man on the island was oppressed by a bizarre sense of unreality affecting the very ground upon which he walked, the mind of the Capataz of the Cargadores turned alertly to the problem of future conduct. Nostromo's faculties, working on parallel lines, enabled him to steer straight, to keep a look-out for Hermosa, near which he had to pass, and to try to imagine what would happen tomorrow in Sulaco. To-morrow, or, as a matter of fact, to-day, since the dawn was not very far, Sotillo would find out in what way the treasure had gone. A gang of Cargadores had been employed in loading it into a railway truck from the Custom House store-rooms, and running the truck on to the wharf. There would be arrests made, and certainly before noon Sotillo would know in what manner the silver had left Sulaco, and who it was that took it out. Nostromo's intention had been to sail right into the harbour; but at this thought by a sudden touch of the tiller he threw the lighter into the wind and checked her rapid way. His re-appearance with the very boat would raise suspicions, would cause surmises, would absolutely put Sotillo on the track. He himself would be arrested; and once in the Calabozo there was no saying what they would do to him to make him speak. He trusted himself, but he stood up to look round. Near by, Hermosa showed low its white surface as flat as a table, with the slight run of the sea raised by the breeze washing over its edges noisily. The lighter must be sunk at once. He allowed her to drift with her sail aback. There was already a good deal of water in her. He allowed her to drift towards the harbour entrance, and, letting the tiller swing about, squatted down and busied himself in loosening the plug. With that out she would fill very quickly, and every lighter carried a little iron ballast--enough to make her go down when full of water. When he stood up again the noisy wash about the Hermosa sounded far away, almost inaudible; and already he could make out the shape of land about the harbour entrance. This was a desperate affair, and he was a good swimmer. A mile was nothing to him, and he knew of an easy place for landing just below the earthworks of the old abandoned fort. It occurred to him with a peculiar fascination that this fort was a good place in which to sleep the day through after so many sleepless nights. With one blow of the tiller he unshipped for the purpose, he knocked the plug out, but did not take the trouble to lower the sail. He felt the water welling up heavily about his legs before he leaped on to the taffrail. There, upright and motionless, in his shirt and trousers only, he stood waiting. When he had felt her settle he sprang far away with a mighty splash. At once he turned his head. The gloomy, clouded dawn from behind the mountains showed him on the smooth waters the upper corner of the sail, a dark wet triangle of canvas waving slightly to and fro. He saw it vanish, as if jerked under, and then struck out for the shore. PART THIRD THE LIGHTHOUSE CHAPTER ONE Directly the cargo boat had slipped away from the wharf and got lost in the darkness of the harbour the Europeans of Sulaco separated, to prepare for the coming of the Monterist regime, which was approaching Sulaco from the mountains, as well as from the sea. This bit of manual work in loading the silver was their last concerted action. It ended the three days of danger, during which, according to the newspaper press of Europe, their energy had preserved the town from the calamities of popular disorder. At the shore end of the jetty, Captain Mitchell said good-night and turned back. His intention was to walk the planks of the wharf till the steamer from Esmeralda turned up. The engineers of the railway staff, collecting their Basque and Italian workmen, marched them away to the railway yards, leaving the Custom House, so well defended on the first day of the riot, standing open to the four winds of heaven. Their men had conducted themselves bravely and faithfully during the famous "three days" of Sulaco. In a great part this faithfulness and that courage had been exercised in self-defence rather than in the cause of those material interests to which Charles Gould had pinned his faith. Amongst the cries of the mob not the least loud had been the cry of death to foreigners. It was, indeed, a lucky circumstance for Sulaco that the relations of those imported workmen with the people of the country had been uniformly bad from the first. Doctor Monygham, going to the door of Viola's kitchen, observed this retreat marking the end of the foreign interference, this withdrawal of the army of material progress from the field of Costaguana revolutions. Algarrobe torches carried on the outskirts of the moving body sent their penetrating aroma into his nostrils. Their light, sweeping along the front of the house, made the letters of the inscription, "Albergo d'ltalia Una," leap out black from end to end of the long wall. His eyes blinked in the clear blaze. Several young men, mostly fair and tall, shepherding this mob of dark bronzed heads, surmounted by the glint of slanting rifle barrels, nodded to him familiarly as they went by. The doctor was a well-known character. Some of them wondered what he was doing there. Then, on the flank of their workmen they tramped on, following the line of rails. "Withdrawing your people from the harbour?" said the doctor, addressing himself to the chief engineer of the railway, who had accompanied Charles Gould so far on his way to the town, walking by the side of the horse, with his hand on the saddle-bow. They had stopped just outside the open door to let the workmen cross the road. "As quick as I can. We are not a political faction," answered the engineer, meaningly. "And we are not going to give our new rulers a handle against the railway. You approve me, Gould?" "Absolutely," said Charles Gould's impassive voice, high up and outside the dim parallelogram of light falling on the road through the open door. With Sotillo expected from one side, and Pedro Montero from the other, the engineer-in-chief's only anxiety now was to avoid a collision with either. Sulaco, for him, was a railway station, a terminus, workshops, a great accumulation of stores. As against the mob the railway defended its property, but politically the railway was neutral. He was a brave man; and in that spirit of neutrality he had carried proposals of truce to the self-appointed chiefs of the popular party, the deputies Fuentes and Gamacho. Bullets were still flying about when he had crossed the Plaza on that mission, waving above his head a white napkin belonging to the table linen of the Amarilla Club. He was rather proud of this exploit; and reflecting that the doctor, busy all day with the wounded in the patio of the Casa Gould, had not had time to hear the news, he began a succinct narrative. He had communicated to them the intelligence from the Construction Camp as to Pedro Montero. The brother of the victorious general, he had assured them, could be expected at Sulaco at any time now. This news (as he anticipated), when shouted out of the window by Senor Gamacho, induced a rush of the mob along the Campo Road towards Rincon. The two deputies also, after shaking hands with him effusively, mounted and galloped off to meet the great man. "I have misled them a little as to the time," the chief engineer confessed. "However hard he rides, he can scarcely get here before the morning. But my object is attained. I've secured several hours' peace for the losing party. But I did not tell them anything about Sotillo, for fear they would take it into their heads to try to get hold of the harbour again, either to oppose him or welcome him--there's no saying which. There was Gould's silver, on which rests the remnant of our hopes. Decoud's retreat had to be thought of, too. I think the railway has done pretty well by its friends without compromising itself hopelessly. Now the parties must be left to themselves." "Costaguana for the Costaguaneros," interjected the doctor, sardonically. "It is a fine country, and they have raised a fine crop of hates, vengeance, murder, and rapine--those sons of the country." "Well, I am one of them," Charles Gould's voice sounded, calmly, "and I must be going on to see to my own crop of trouble. My wife has driven straight on, doctor?" "Yes. All was quiet on this side. Mrs. Gould has taken the two girls with her." Charles Gould rode on, and the engineer-in-chief followed the doctor indoors. "That man is calmness personified," he said, appreciatively, dropping on a bench, and stretching his well-shaped legs in cycling stockings nearly across the doorway. "He must be extremely sure of himself." "If that's all he is sure of, then he is sure of nothing," said the doctor. He had perched himself again on the end of the table. He nursed his cheek in the palm of one hand, while the other sustained the elbow. "It is the last thing a man ought to be sure of." The candle, half-consumed and burning dimly with a long wick, lighted up from below his inclined face, whose expression affected by the drawn-in cicatrices in the cheeks, had something vaguely unnatural, an exaggerated remorseful bitterness. As he sat there he had the air of meditating upon sinister things. The engineer-in-chief gazed at him for a time before he protested. "I really don't see that. For me there seems to be nothing else. However----" He was a wise man, but he could not quite conceal his contempt for that sort of paradox; in fact. Dr. Monygham was not liked by the Europeans of Sulaco. His outward aspect of an outcast, which he preserved even in Mrs. Gould's drawing-room, provoked unfavourable criticism. There could be no doubt of his intelligence; and as he had lived for over twenty years in the country, the pessimism of his outlook could not be altogether ignored. But instinctively, in self-defence of their activities and hopes, his hearers put it to the account of some hidden imperfection in the man's character. It was known that many years before, when quite young, he had been made by Guzman Bento chief medical officer of the army. Not one of the Europeans then in the service of Costaguana had been so much liked and trusted by the fierce old Dictator. Afterwards his story was not so clear. It lost itself amongst the innumerable tales of conspiracies and plots against the tyrant as a stream is lost in an arid belt of sandy country before it emerges, diminished and troubled, perhaps, on the other side. The doctor made no secret of it that he had lived for years in the wildest parts of the Republic, wandering with almost unknown Indian tribes in the great forests of the far interior where the great rivers have their sources. But it was mere aimless wandering; he had written nothing, collected nothing, brought nothing for science out of the twilight of the forests, which seemed to cling to his battered personality limping about Sulaco, where it had drifted in casually, only to get stranded on the shores of the sea. It was also known that he had lived in a state of destitution till the arrival of the Goulds from Europe. Don Carlos and Dona Emilia had taken up the mad English doctor, when it became apparent that for all his savage independence he could be tamed by kindness. Perhaps it was only hunger that had tamed him. In years gone by he had certainly been acquainted with Charles Gould's father in Sta. Marta; and now, no matter what were the dark passages of his history, as the medical officer of the San Tome mine he became a recognized personality. He was recognized, but not unreservedly accepted. So much defiant eccentricity and such an outspoken scorn for mankind seemed to point to mere recklessness of judgment, the bravado of guilt. Besides, since he had become again of some account, vague whispers had been heard that years ago, when fallen into disgrace and thrown into prison by Guzman Bento at the time of the so-called Great Conspiracy, he had betrayed some of his best friends amongst the conspirators. Nobody pretended to believe that whisper; the whole story of the Great Conspiracy was hopelessly involved and obscure; it is admitted in Costaguana that there never had been a conspiracy except in the diseased imagination of the Tyrant; and, therefore, nothing and no one to betray; though the most distinguished Costaguaneros had been imprisoned and executed upon that accusation. The procedure had dragged on for years, decimating the better class like a pestilence. The mere expression of sorrow for the fate of executed kinsmen had been punished with death. Don Jose Avellanos was perhaps the only one living who knew the whole story of those unspeakable cruelties. He had suffered from them himself, and he, with a shrug of the shoulders and a nervous, jerky gesture of the arm, was wont to put away from him, as it were, every allusion to it. But whatever the reason, Dr. Monygham, a personage in the administration of the Gould Concession, treated with reverent awe by the miners, and indulged in his peculiarities by Mrs. Gould, remained somehow outside the pale. It was not from any liking for the doctor that the engineer-in-chief had lingered in the inn upon the plain. He liked old Viola much better. He had come to look upon the Albergo d'ltalia Una as a dependence of the railway. Many of his subordinates had their quarters there. Mrs. Gould's interest in the family conferred upon it a sort of distinction. The engineer-in-chief, with an army of workers under his orders, appreciated the moral influence of the old Garibaldino upon his countrymen. His austere, old-world Republicanism had a severe, soldier-like standard of faithfulness and duty, as if the world were a battlefield where men had to fight for the sake of universal love and brotherhood, instead of a more or less large share of booty. "Poor old chap!" he said, after he had heard the doctor's account of Teresa. "He'll never be able to keep the place going by himself. I shall be sorry." "He's quite alone up there," grunted Doctor Monygham, with a toss of his heavy head towards the narrow staircase. "Every living soul has cleared out, and Mrs. Gould took the girls away just now. It might not be over-safe for them out here before very long. Of course, as a doctor I can do nothing more here; but she has asked me to stay with old Viola, and as I have no horse to get back to the mine, where I ought to be, I made no difficulty to stay. They can do without me in the town." "I have a good mind to remain with you, doctor, till we see whether anything happens to-night at the harbour," declared the engineer-in-chief. "He must not be molested by Sotillo's soldiery, who may push on as far as this at once. Sotillo used to be very cordial to me at the Goulds' and at the club. How that man'll ever dare to look any of his friends here in the face

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

was completely wet), disclosed to the toiling Decoud the eagerness of his face, bent low over the box of the compass, and the attentive stare of his eyes. He knew now where he was, and he hoped to run the sinking lighter ashore in the shallow cove where the high, cliff-like end of the Great Isabel is divided in two equal parts by a deep and overgrown ravine. Decoud pumped without intermission. Nostromo steered without relaxing for a second the intense, peering effort of his stare. Each of them was as if utterly alone with his task. It did not occur to them to speak. There was nothing in common between them but the knowledge that the damaged lighter must be slowly but surely sinking. In that knowledge, which was like the crucial test of their desires, they seemed to have become completely estranged, as if they had discovered in the very shock of the collision that the loss of the lighter would not mean the same thing to them both. This common danger brought their differences in aim, in view, in character, and in position, into absolute prominence in the private vision of each. There was no bond of conviction, of common idea; they were merely two adventurers pursuing each his own adventure, involved in the same imminence of deadly peril. Therefore they had nothing to say to each other. But this peril, this only incontrovertible truth in which they shared, seemed to act as an inspiration to their mental and bodily powers. There was certainly something almost miraculous in the way the Capataz made the cove with nothing but the shadowy hint of the island's shape and the vague gleam of a small sandy strip for a guide. Where the ravine opens between the cliffs, and a slender, shallow rivulet meanders out of the bushes to lose itself in the sea, the lighter was run ashore; and the two men, with a taciturn, undaunted energy, began to discharge her precious freight, carrying each ox-hide box up the bed of the rivulet beyond the bushes to a hollow place which the caving in of the soil had made below the roots of a large tree. Its big smooth trunk leaned like a falling column far over the trickle of water running amongst the loose stones. A couple of years before Nostromo had spent a whole Sunday, all alone, exploring the island. He explained this to Decoud after their task was done, and they sat, weary in every limb, with their legs hanging down the low bank, and their backs against the tree, like a pair of blind men aware of each other and their surroundings by some indefinable sixth sense. "Yes," Nostromo repeated, "I never forget a place I have carefully looked at once." He spoke slowly, almost lazily, as if there had been a whole leisurely life before him, instead of the scanty two hours before daylight. The existence of the treasure, barely concealed in this improbable spot, laid a burden of secrecy upon every contemplated step, upon every intention and plan of future conduct. He felt the partial failure of this desperate affair entrusted to the great reputation he had known how to make for himself. However, it was also a partial success. His vanity was half appeased. His nervous irritation had subsided. "You never know what may be of use," he pursued with his usual quietness of tone and manner. "I spent a whole miserable Sunday in exploring this crumb of land." "A misanthropic sort of occupation," muttered Decoud, viciously. "You had no money, I suppose, to gamble with, and to fling about amongst the girls in your usual haunts, Capataz." "_E vero!_" exclaimed the Capataz, surprised into the use of his native tongue by so much perspicacity. "I had not! Therefore I did not want to go amongst those beggarly people accustomed to my generosity. It is looked for from the Capataz of the Cargadores, who are the rich men, and, as it were, the Caballeros amongst the common people. I don't care for cards but as a pastime; and as to those girls that boast of having opened their doors to my knock, you know I wouldn't look at any one of them twice except for what the people would say. They are queer, the good people of Sulaco, and I have got much useful information simply by listening patiently to the talk of the women that everybody believed I was in love with. Poor Teresa could never understand that. On that particular Sunday, senor, she scolded so that I went out of the house swearing that I would never darken their door again unless to fetch away my hammock and my chest of clothes. Senor, there is nothing more exasperating than to hear a woman you respect rail against your good reputation when you have not a single brass coin in your pocket. I untied one of the small boats and pulled myself out of the harbour with nothing but three cigars in my pocket to help me spend the day on this island. But the water of this rivulet you hear under your feet is cool and sweet and good, senor, both before and after a smoke." He was silent for a while, then added reflectively, "That was the first Sunday after I brought down the white-whiskered English rico all the way down the mountains from the Paramo on the top of the Entrada Pass--and in the coach, too! No coach had gone up or down that mountain road within the memory of man, senor, till I brought this one down in charge of fifty peons working like one man with ropes, pickaxes, and poles under my direction. That was the rich Englishman who, as people say, pays for the making of this railway. He was very pleased with me. But my wages were not due till the end of the month." He slid down the bank suddenly. Decoud heard the splash of his feet in the brook and followed his footsteps down the ravine. His form was lost among the bushes till he had reached the strip of sand under the cliff. As often happens in the gulf when the showers during the first part of the night had been frequent and heavy, the darkness had thinned considerably towards the morning though there were no signs of daylight as yet. The cargo-lighter, relieved of its precious burden, rocked feebly, half-afloat, with her fore-foot on the sand. A long rope stretched away like a black cotton thread across the strip of white beach to the grapnel Nostromo had carried ashore and hooked to the stem of a tree-like shrub in the very opening of the ravine. There was nothing for Decoud but to remain on the island. He received from Nostromo's hands whatever food the foresight of Captain Mitchell had put on board the lighter and deposited it temporarily in the little dinghy which on their arrival they had hauled up out of sight amongst the bushes. It was to be left with him. The island was to be a hiding-place, not a prison; he could pull out to a passing ship. The O.S.N. Company's mail boats passed close to the islands when going into Sulaco from the north. But the Minerva, carrying off the ex-president, had taken the news up north of the disturbances in Sulaco. It was possible that the next steamer down would get instructions to miss the port altogether since the town, as far as the Minerva's officers knew, was for the time being in the hands of the rabble. This would mean that there would be no steamer for a month, as far as the mail service went; but Decoud had to take his chance of that. The island was his only shelter from the proscription hanging over his head. The Capataz was, of course, going back. The unloaded lighter leaked much less, and he thought that she would keep afloat as far as the harbour. He passed to Decoud, standing knee-deep alongside, one of the two spades which belonged to the equipment of each lighter for use when ballasting ships. By working with it carefully as soon as there was daylight enough to see, Decoud could loosen a mass of earth and stones overhanging the cavity in which they had deposited the treasure, so that it would look as if it had fallen naturally. It would cover up not only the cavity, but even all traces of their work, the footsteps, the displaced stones, and even the broken bushes. "Besides, who would think of looking either for you or the treasure here?" Nostromo continued, as if he could not tear himself away from the spot. "Nobody is ever likely to come here. What could any man want with this piece of earth as long as there is room for his feet on the mainland! The people in this country are not curious. There are even no fishermen here to intrude upon your worship. All the fishing that is done in the gulf goes on near Zapiga, over there. Senor, if you are forced to leave this island before anything can be arranged for you, do not try to make for Zapiga. It is a settlement of thieves and matreros, where they would cut your throat promptly for the sake of your gold watch and chain. And, senor, think twice before confiding in any one whatever; even in the officers of the Company's steamers, if you ever get on board one. Honesty alone is not enough for security. You must look to discretion and prudence in a man. And always remember, senor, before you open your lips for a confidence, that this treasure may be left safely here for hundreds of years. Time is on its side, senor. And silver is an incorruptible metal that can be trusted to keep its value for ever. . . . An incorruptible metal," he repeated, as if the idea had given him a profound pleasure. "As some men are said to be," Decoud pronounced, inscrutably, while the Capataz, who busied himself in baling out the lighter with a wooden bucket, went on throwing the water over the side with a regular splash. Decoud, incorrigible in his scepticism, reflected, not cynically, but with general satisfaction, that this man was made incorruptible by his enormous vanity, that finest form of egoism which can take on the aspect of every virtue. Nostromo ceased baling, and, as if struck with a sudden thought, dropped the bucket with a clatter into the lighter. "Have you any message?" he asked in a lowered voice. "Remember, I shall be asked questions." "You must find the hopeful words that ought to be spoken to the people in town. I trust for that your intelligence and your experience, Capataz. You understand?" "Si, senor. . . . For the ladies." "Yes, yes," said Decoud, hastily. "Your wonderful reputation will make them attach great value to your words; therefore be careful what you say. I am looking forward," he continued, feeling the fatal touch of contempt for himself to which his complex nature was subject, "I am looking forward to a glorious and successful ending to my mission. Do you hear, Capataz? Use the words glorious and successful when you speak to the senorita. Your own mission is accomplished gloriously and successfully. You have indubitably saved the silver of the mine. Not only this silver, but probably all the silver that shall ever come out of it." Nostromo detected the ironic tone. "I dare say, Senor Don Martin," he said, moodily. "There are very few things that I am not equal to. Ask the foreign signori. I, a man of the people, who cannot always understand what you mean. But as to this lot which I must leave here, let me tell you that I would believe it in greater safety if you had not been with me at all." An exclamation escaped Decoud, and a short pause followed. "Shall I go back with you to Sulaco?" he asked in an angry tone. "Shall I strike you dead with my knife where you stand?" retorted Nostromo, contemptuously. "It would be the same thing as taking you to Sulaco. Come, senor. Your reputation is in your politics, and mine is bound up with the fate of this silver. Do you wonder I wish there had been no other man to share my knowledge? I wanted no one with me, senor." "You could not have kept the lighter afloat without me," Decoud almost shouted. "You would have gone to the bottom with her." "Yes," uttered Nostromo, slowly; "alone." Here was a man, Decoud reflected, that seemed as though he would have preferred to die rather than deface the perfect form of his egoism. Such a man was safe. In silence he helped the Capataz to get the grapnel on board. Nostromo cleared the shelving shore with one push of the heavy oar, and Decoud found himself solitary on the beach like a man in a dream. A sudden desire to hear a human voice once more seized upon his heart. The lighter was hardly distinguishable from the black water upon which she floated. "What do you think has become of Hirsch?" he shouted. "Knocked overboard and drowned," cried Nostromo's voice confidently out of the black wastes of sky and sea around the islet. "Keep close in the ravine, senor. I shall try to come out to you in a night or two." A slight swishing rustle showed that Nostromo was setting the sail. It filled all at once with a sound as of a single loud drum-tap. Decoud went back to the ravine. Nostromo, at the tiller, looked back from time to time at the vanishing mass of the Great Isabel, which, little by little, merged into the uniform texture of the night. At last, when he turned his head again, he saw nothing but a smooth darkness, like a solid wall. Then he, too, experienced that feeling of solitude which had weighed heavily on Decoud after the lighter had slipped off the shore. But while the man on the island was oppressed by a bizarre sense of unreality affecting the very ground upon which he walked, the mind of the Capataz of the Cargadores turned alertly to the problem of future conduct. Nostromo's faculties, working on parallel lines, enabled him to steer straight, to keep a look-out for Hermosa, near which he had to pass, and to try to imagine what would happen tomorrow in Sulaco. To-morrow, or, as a matter of fact, to-day, since the dawn was not very far, Sotillo would find out in what way the treasure had gone. A gang of Cargadores had been employed in loading it into a railway truck from the Custom House store-rooms, and running the truck on to the wharf. There would be arrests made, and certainly before noon Sotillo would know in what manner the silver had left Sulaco, and who it was that took it out. Nostromo's intention had been to sail right into the harbour; but at this thought by a sudden touch of the tiller he threw the lighter into the wind and checked her rapid way. His re-appearance with the very boat would raise suspicions, would cause surmises, would absolutely put Sotillo on the track. He himself would be arrested; and once in the Calabozo there was no saying what they would do to him to make him speak. He trusted himself, but he stood up to look round. Near by, Hermosa showed low its white surface as flat as a table, with the slight run of the sea raised by the breeze washing over its edges noisily. The lighter must be sunk at once. He allowed her to drift with her sail aback. There was already a good deal of water in her. He allowed her to drift towards the harbour entrance, and, letting the tiller swing about, squatted down and busied himself in loosening the plug. With that out she would fill very quickly, and every lighter carried a little iron ballast--enough to make her go down when full of water. When he stood up again the noisy wash about the Hermosa sounded far away, almost inaudible; and already he could make out the shape of land about the harbour entrance. This was a desperate affair, and he was a good swimmer. A mile was nothing to him, and he knew of an easy place for landing just below the earthworks of the old abandoned fort. It occurred to him with a peculiar fascination that this fort was a good place in which to sleep the day through after so many sleepless nights. With one blow of the tiller he unshipped for the purpose, he knocked the plug out, but did not take the trouble to lower the sail. He felt the water welling up heavily about his legs before he leaped on to the taffrail. There, upright and motionless, in his shirt and trousers only, he stood waiting. When he had felt her settle he sprang far away with a mighty splash. At once he turned his head. The gloomy, clouded dawn from behind the mountains showed him on the smooth waters the upper corner of the sail, a dark wet triangle of canvas waving slightly to and fro. He saw it vanish, as if jerked under, and then struck out for the shore. PART THIRD THE LIGHTHOUSE CHAPTER ONE Directly the cargo boat had slipped away from the wharf and got lost in the darkness of the harbour the Europeans of Sulaco separated, to prepare for the coming of the Monterist regime, which was approaching Sulaco from the mountains, as well as from the sea. This bit of manual work in loading the silver was their last concerted action. It ended the three days of danger, during which, according to the newspaper press of Europe, their energy had preserved the town from the calamities of popular disorder. At the shore end of the jetty, Captain Mitchell said good-night and turned back. His intention was to walk the planks of the wharf till the steamer from Esmeralda turned up. The engineers of the railway staff, collecting their Basque and Italian workmen, marched them away to the railway yards, leaving the Custom House, so well defended on the first day of the riot, standing open to the four winds of heaven. Their men had conducted themselves bravely and faithfully during the famous "three days" of Sulaco. In a great part this faithfulness and that courage had been exercised in self-defence rather than in the cause of those material interests to which Charles Gould had pinned his faith. Amongst the cries of the mob not the least loud had been the cry of death to foreigners. It was, indeed, a lucky circumstance for Sulaco that the relations of those imported workmen with the people of the country had been uniformly bad from the first. Doctor Monygham, going to the door of Viola's kitchen, observed this retreat marking the end of the foreign interference, this withdrawal of the army of material progress from the field of Costaguana revolutions. Algarrobe torches carried on the outskirts of the moving body sent their penetrating aroma into his nostrils. Their light, sweeping along the front of the house, made the letters of the inscription, "Albergo d'ltalia Una," leap out black from end to end of the long wall. His eyes blinked in the clear blaze. Several young men, mostly fair and tall, shepherding this mob of dark bronzed heads, surmounted by the glint of slanting rifle barrels, nodded to him familiarly as they went by. The doctor was a well-known character. Some of them wondered what he was doing there. Then, on the flank of their workmen they tramped on, following the line of rails. "Withdrawing your people from the harbour?" said the doctor, addressing himself to the chief engineer of the railway, who had accompanied Charles Gould so far on his way to the town, walking by the side of the horse, with his hand on the saddle-bow. They had stopped just outside the open door to let the workmen cross the road. "As quick as I can. We are not a political faction," answered the engineer, meaningly. "And we are not going to give our new rulers a handle against the railway. You approve me, Gould?" "Absolutely," said Charles Gould's impassive voice, high up and outside the dim parallelogram of light falling on the road through the open door. With Sotillo expected from one side, and Pedro Montero from the other, the engineer-in-chief's only anxiety now was to avoid a collision with either. Sulaco, for him, was a railway station, a terminus, workshops, a great accumulation of stores. As against the mob the railway defended its property, but politically the railway was neutral. He was a brave man; and in that spirit of neutrality he had carried proposals of truce to the self-appointed chiefs of the popular party, the deputies Fuentes and Gamacho. Bullets were still flying about when he had crossed the Plaza on that mission, waving above his head a white napkin belonging to the table linen of the Amarilla Club. He was rather proud of this exploit; and reflecting that the doctor, busy all day with the wounded in the patio of the Casa Gould, had not had time to hear the news, he began a succinct narrative. He had communicated to them the intelligence from the Construction Camp as to Pedro Montero. The brother of the victorious general, he had assured them, could be expected at Sulaco at any time now. This news (as he anticipated), when shouted out of the window by Senor Gamacho, induced a rush of the mob along the Campo Road towards Rincon. The two deputies also, after shaking hands with him effusively, mounted and galloped off to meet the great man. "I have misled them a little as to the time," the chief engineer confessed. "However hard he rides, he can scarcely get here before the morning. But my object is attained. I've secured several hours' peace for the losing party. But I did not tell them anything about Sotillo, for fear they would take it into their heads to try to get hold of the harbour again, either to oppose him or welcome him--there's no saying which. There was Gould's silver, on which rests the remnant of our hopes. Decoud's retreat had to be thought of, too. I think the railway has done pretty well by its friends without compromising itself hopelessly. Now the parties must be left to themselves." "Costaguana for the Costaguaneros," interjected the doctor, sardonically. "It is a fine country, and they have raised a fine crop of hates, vengeance, murder, and rapine--those sons of the country." "Well, I am one of them," Charles Gould's voice sounded, calmly, "and I must be going on to see to my own crop of trouble. My wife has driven straight on, doctor?" "Yes. All was quiet on this side. Mrs. Gould has taken the two girls with her." Charles Gould rode on, and the engineer-in-chief followed the doctor indoors. "That man is calmness personified," he said, appreciatively, dropping on a bench, and stretching his well-shaped legs in cycling stockings nearly across the doorway. "He must be extremely sure of himself." "If that's all he is sure of, then he is sure of nothing," said the doctor. He had perched himself again on the end of the table. He nursed his cheek in the palm of one hand, while the other sustained the elbow. "It is the last thing a man ought to be sure of." The candle, half-consumed and burning dimly with a long wick, lighted up from below his inclined face, whose expression affected by the drawn-in cicatrices in the cheeks, had something vaguely unnatural, an exaggerated remorseful bitterness. As he sat there he had the air of meditating upon sinister things. The engineer-in-chief gazed at him for a time before he protested. "I really don't see that. For me there seems to be nothing else. However----" He was a wise man, but he could not quite conceal his contempt for that sort of paradox; in fact. Dr. Monygham was not liked by the Europeans of Sulaco. His outward aspect of an outcast, which he preserved even in Mrs. Gould's drawing-room, provoked unfavourable criticism. There could be no doubt of his intelligence; and as he had lived for over twenty years in the country, the pessimism of his outlook could not be altogether ignored. But instinctively, in self-defence of their activities and hopes, his hearers put it to the account of some hidden imperfection in the man's character. It was known that many years before, when quite young, he had been made by Guzman Bento chief medical officer of the army. Not one of the Europeans then in the service of Costaguana had been so much liked and trusted by the fierce old Dictator. Afterwards his story was not so clear. It lost itself amongst the innumerable tales of conspiracies and plots against the tyrant as a stream is lost in an arid belt of sandy country before it emerges, diminished and troubled, perhaps, on the other side. The doctor made no secret of it that he had lived for years in the wildest parts of the Republic, wandering with almost unknown Indian tribes in the great forests of the far interior where the great rivers have their sources. But it was mere aimless wandering; he had written nothing, collected nothing, brought nothing for science out of the twilight of the forests, which seemed to cling to his battered personality limping about Sulaco, where it had drifted in casually, only to get stranded on the shores of the sea. It was also known that he had lived in a state of destitution till the arrival of the Goulds from Europe. Don Carlos and Dona Emilia had taken up the mad English doctor, when it became apparent that for all his savage independence he could be tamed by kindness. Perhaps it was only hunger that had tamed him. In years gone by he had certainly been acquainted with Charles Gould's father in Sta. Marta; and now, no matter what were the dark passages of his history, as the medical officer of the San Tome mine he became a recognized personality. He was recognized, but not unreservedly accepted. So much defiant eccentricity and such an outspoken scorn for mankind seemed to point to mere recklessness of judgment, the bravado of guilt. Besides, since he had become again of some account, vague whispers had been heard that years ago, when fallen into disgrace and thrown into prison by Guzman Bento at the time of the so-called Great Conspiracy, he had betrayed some of his best friends amongst the conspirators. Nobody pretended to believe that whisper; the whole story of the Great Conspiracy was hopelessly involved and obscure; it is admitted in Costaguana that there never had been a conspiracy except in the diseased imagination of the Tyrant; and, therefore, nothing and no one to betray; though the most distinguished Costaguaneros had been imprisoned and executed upon that accusation. The procedure had dragged on for years, decimating the better class like a pestilence. The mere expression of sorrow for the fate of executed kinsmen had been punished with death. Don Jose Avellanos was perhaps the only one living who knew the whole story of those unspeakable cruelties. He had suffered from them himself, and he, with a shrug of the shoulders and a nervous, jerky gesture of the arm, was wont to put away from him, as it were, every allusion to it. But whatever the reason, Dr. Monygham, a personage in the administration of the Gould Concession, treated with reverent awe by the miners, and indulged in his peculiarities by Mrs. Gould, remained somehow outside the pale. It was not from any liking for the doctor that the engineer-in-chief had lingered in the inn upon the plain. He liked old Viola much better. He had come to look upon the Albergo d'ltalia Una as a dependence of the railway. Many of his subordinates had their quarters there. Mrs. Gould's interest in the family conferred upon it a sort of distinction. The engineer-in-chief, with an army of workers under his orders, appreciated the moral influence of the old Garibaldino upon his countrymen. His austere, old-world Republicanism had a severe, soldier-like standard of faithfulness and duty, as if the world were a battlefield where men had to fight for the sake of universal love and brotherhood, instead of a more or less large share of booty. "Poor old chap!" he said, after he had heard the doctor's account of Teresa. "He'll never be able to keep the place going by himself. I shall be sorry." "He's quite alone up there," grunted Doctor Monygham, with a toss of his heavy head towards the narrow staircase. "Every living soul has cleared out, and Mrs. Gould took the girls away just now. It might not be over-safe for them out here before very long. Of course, as a doctor I can do nothing more here; but she has asked me to stay with old Viola, and as I have no horse to get back to the mine, where I ought to be, I made no difficulty to stay. They can do without me in the town." "I have a good mind to remain with you, doctor, till we see whether anything happens to-night at the harbour," declared the engineer-in-chief. "He must not be molested by Sotillo's soldiery, who may push on as far as this at once. Sotillo used to be very cordial to me at the Goulds' and at the club. How that man'll ever dare to look any of his friends here in the face

engineer

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

was completely wet), disclosed to the toiling Decoud the eagerness of his face, bent low over the box of the compass, and the attentive stare of his eyes. He knew now where he was, and he hoped to run the sinking lighter ashore in the shallow cove where the high, cliff-like end of the Great Isabel is divided in two equal parts by a deep and overgrown ravine. Decoud pumped without intermission. Nostromo steered without relaxing for a second the intense, peering effort of his stare. Each of them was as if utterly alone with his task. It did not occur to them to speak. There was nothing in common between them but the knowledge that the damaged lighter must be slowly but surely sinking. In that knowledge, which was like the crucial test of their desires, they seemed to have become completely estranged, as if they had discovered in the very shock of the collision that the loss of the lighter would not mean the same thing to them both. This common danger brought their differences in aim, in view, in character, and in position, into absolute prominence in the private vision of each. There was no bond of conviction, of common idea; they were merely two adventurers pursuing each his own adventure, involved in the same imminence of deadly peril. Therefore they had nothing to say to each other. But this peril, this only incontrovertible truth in which they shared, seemed to act as an inspiration to their mental and bodily powers. There was certainly something almost miraculous in the way the Capataz made the cove with nothing but the shadowy hint of the island's shape and the vague gleam of a small sandy strip for a guide. Where the ravine opens between the cliffs, and a slender, shallow rivulet meanders out of the bushes to lose itself in the sea, the lighter was run ashore; and the two men, with a taciturn, undaunted energy, began to discharge her precious freight, carrying each ox-hide box up the bed of the rivulet beyond the bushes to a hollow place which the caving in of the soil had made below the roots of a large tree. Its big smooth trunk leaned like a falling column far over the trickle of water running amongst the loose stones. A couple of years before Nostromo had spent a whole Sunday, all alone, exploring the island. He explained this to Decoud after their task was done, and they sat, weary in every limb, with their legs hanging down the low bank, and their backs against the tree, like a pair of blind men aware of each other and their surroundings by some indefinable sixth sense. "Yes," Nostromo repeated, "I never forget a place I have carefully looked at once." He spoke slowly, almost lazily, as if there had been a whole leisurely life before him, instead of the scanty two hours before daylight. The existence of the treasure, barely concealed in this improbable spot, laid a burden of secrecy upon every contemplated step, upon every intention and plan of future conduct. He felt the partial failure of this desperate affair entrusted to the great reputation he had known how to make for himself. However, it was also a partial success. His vanity was half appeased. His nervous irritation had subsided. "You never know what may be of use," he pursued with his usual quietness of tone and manner. "I spent a whole miserable Sunday in exploring this crumb of land." "A misanthropic sort of occupation," muttered Decoud, viciously. "You had no money, I suppose, to gamble with, and to fling about amongst the girls in your usual haunts, Capataz." "_E vero!_" exclaimed the Capataz, surprised into the use of his native tongue by so much perspicacity. "I had not! Therefore I did not want to go amongst those beggarly people accustomed to my generosity. It is looked for from the Capataz of the Cargadores, who are the rich men, and, as it were, the Caballeros amongst the common people. I don't care for cards but as a pastime; and as to those girls that boast of having opened their doors to my knock, you know I wouldn't look at any one of them twice except for what the people would say. They are queer, the good people of Sulaco, and I have got much useful information simply by listening patiently to the talk of the women that everybody believed I was in love with. Poor Teresa could never understand that. On that particular Sunday, senor, she scolded so that I went out of the house swearing that I would never darken their door again unless to fetch away my hammock and my chest of clothes. Senor, there is nothing more exasperating than to hear a woman you respect rail against your good reputation when you have not a single brass coin in your pocket. I untied one of the small boats and pulled myself out of the harbour with nothing but three cigars in my pocket to help me spend the day on this island. But the water of this rivulet you hear under your feet is cool and sweet and good, senor, both before and after a smoke." He was silent for a while, then added reflectively, "That was the first Sunday after I brought down the white-whiskered English rico all the way down the mountains from the Paramo on the top of the Entrada Pass--and in the coach, too! No coach had gone up or down that mountain road within the memory of man, senor, till I brought this one down in charge of fifty peons working like one man with ropes, pickaxes, and poles under my direction. That was the rich Englishman who, as people say, pays for the making of this railway. He was very pleased with me. But my wages were not due till the end of the month." He slid down the bank suddenly. Decoud heard the splash of his feet in the brook and followed his footsteps down the ravine. His form was lost among the bushes till he had reached the strip of sand under the cliff. As often happens in the gulf when the showers during the first part of the night had been frequent and heavy, the darkness had thinned considerably towards the morning though there were no signs of daylight as yet. The cargo-lighter, relieved of its precious burden, rocked feebly, half-afloat, with her fore-foot on the sand. A long rope stretched away like a black cotton thread across the strip of white beach to the grapnel Nostromo had carried ashore and hooked to the stem of a tree-like shrub in the very opening of the ravine. There was nothing for Decoud but to remain on the island. He received from Nostromo's hands whatever food the foresight of Captain Mitchell had put on board the lighter and deposited it temporarily in the little dinghy which on their arrival they had hauled up out of sight amongst the bushes. It was to be left with him. The island was to be a hiding-place, not a prison; he could pull out to a passing ship. The O.S.N. Company's mail boats passed close to the islands when going into Sulaco from the north. But the Minerva, carrying off the ex-president, had taken the news up north of the disturbances in Sulaco. It was possible that the next steamer down would get instructions to miss the port altogether since the town, as far as the Minerva's officers knew, was for the time being in the hands of the rabble. This would mean that there would be no steamer for a month, as far as the mail service went; but Decoud had to take his chance of that. The island was his only shelter from the proscription hanging over his head. The Capataz was, of course, going back. The unloaded lighter leaked much less, and he thought that she would keep afloat as far as the harbour. He passed to Decoud, standing knee-deep alongside, one of the two spades which belonged to the equipment of each lighter for use when ballasting ships. By working with it carefully as soon as there was daylight enough to see, Decoud could loosen a mass of earth and stones overhanging the cavity in which they had deposited the treasure, so that it would look as if it had fallen naturally. It would cover up not only the cavity, but even all traces of their work, the footsteps, the displaced stones, and even the broken bushes. "Besides, who would think of looking either for you or the treasure here?" Nostromo continued, as if he could not tear himself away from the spot. "Nobody is ever likely to come here. What could any man want with this piece of earth as long as there is room for his feet on the mainland! The people in this country are not curious. There are even no fishermen here to intrude upon your worship. All the fishing that is done in the gulf goes on near Zapiga, over there. Senor, if you are forced to leave this island before anything can be arranged for you, do not try to make for Zapiga. It is a settlement of thieves and matreros, where they would cut your throat promptly for the sake of your gold watch and chain. And, senor, think twice before confiding in any one whatever; even in the officers of the Company's steamers, if you ever get on board one. Honesty alone is not enough for security. You must look to discretion and prudence in a man. And always remember, senor, before you open your lips for a confidence, that this treasure may be left safely here for hundreds of years. Time is on its side, senor. And silver is an incorruptible metal that can be trusted to keep its value for ever. . . . An incorruptible metal," he repeated, as if the idea had given him a profound pleasure. "As some men are said to be," Decoud pronounced, inscrutably, while the Capataz, who busied himself in baling out the lighter with a wooden bucket, went on throwing the water over the side with a regular splash. Decoud, incorrigible in his scepticism, reflected, not cynically, but with general satisfaction, that this man was made incorruptible by his enormous vanity, that finest form of egoism which can take on the aspect of every virtue. Nostromo ceased baling, and, as if struck with a sudden thought, dropped the bucket with a clatter into the lighter. "Have you any message?" he asked in a lowered voice. "Remember, I shall be asked questions." "You must find the hopeful words that ought to be spoken to the people in town. I trust for that your intelligence and your experience, Capataz. You understand?" "Si, senor. . . . For the ladies." "Yes, yes," said Decoud, hastily. "Your wonderful reputation will make them attach great value to your words; therefore be careful what you say. I am looking forward," he continued, feeling the fatal touch of contempt for himself to which his complex nature was subject, "I am looking forward to a glorious and successful ending to my mission. Do you hear, Capataz? Use the words glorious and successful when you speak to the senorita. Your own mission is accomplished gloriously and successfully. You have indubitably saved the silver of the mine. Not only this silver, but probably all the silver that shall ever come out of it." Nostromo detected the ironic tone. "I dare say, Senor Don Martin," he said, moodily. "There are very few things that I am not equal to. Ask the foreign signori. I, a man of the people, who cannot always understand what you mean. But as to this lot which I must leave here, let me tell you that I would believe it in greater safety if you had not been with me at all." An exclamation escaped Decoud, and a short pause followed. "Shall I go back with you to Sulaco?" he asked in an angry tone. "Shall I strike you dead with my knife where you stand?" retorted Nostromo, contemptuously. "It would be the same thing as taking you to Sulaco. Come, senor. Your reputation is in your politics, and mine is bound up with the fate of this silver. Do you wonder I wish there had been no other man to share my knowledge? I wanted no one with me, senor." "You could not have kept the lighter afloat without me," Decoud almost shouted. "You would have gone to the bottom with her." "Yes," uttered Nostromo, slowly; "alone." Here was a man, Decoud reflected, that seemed as though he would have preferred to die rather than deface the perfect form of his egoism. Such a man was safe. In silence he helped the Capataz to get the grapnel on board. Nostromo cleared the shelving shore with one push of the heavy oar, and Decoud found himself solitary on the beach like a man in a dream. A sudden desire to hear a human voice once more seized upon his heart. The lighter was hardly distinguishable from the black water upon which she floated. "What do you think has become of Hirsch?" he shouted. "Knocked overboard and drowned," cried Nostromo's voice confidently out of the black wastes of sky and sea around the islet. "Keep close in the ravine, senor. I shall try to come out to you in a night or two." A slight swishing rustle showed that Nostromo was setting the sail. It filled all at once with a sound as of a single loud drum-tap. Decoud went back to the ravine. Nostromo, at the tiller, looked back from time to time at the vanishing mass of the Great Isabel, which, little by little, merged into the uniform texture of the night. At last, when he turned his head again, he saw nothing but a smooth darkness, like a solid wall. Then he, too, experienced that feeling of solitude which had weighed heavily on Decoud after the lighter had slipped off the shore. But while the man on the island was oppressed by a bizarre sense of unreality affecting the very ground upon which he walked, the mind of the Capataz of the Cargadores turned alertly to the problem of future conduct. Nostromo's faculties, working on parallel lines, enabled him to steer straight, to keep a look-out for Hermosa, near which he had to pass, and to try to imagine what would happen tomorrow in Sulaco. To-morrow, or, as a matter of fact, to-day, since the dawn was not very far, Sotillo would find out in what way the treasure had gone. A gang of Cargadores had been employed in loading it into a railway truck from the Custom House store-rooms, and running the truck on to the wharf. There would be arrests made, and certainly before noon Sotillo would know in what manner the silver had left Sulaco, and who it was that took it out. Nostromo's intention had been to sail right into the harbour; but at this thought by a sudden touch of the tiller he threw the lighter into the wind and checked her rapid way. His re-appearance with the very boat would raise suspicions, would cause surmises, would absolutely put Sotillo on the track. He himself would be arrested; and once in the Calabozo there was no saying what they would do to him to make him speak. He trusted himself, but he stood up to look round. Near by, Hermosa showed low its white surface as flat as a table, with the slight run of the sea raised by the breeze washing over its edges noisily. The lighter must be sunk at once. He allowed her to drift with her sail aback. There was already a good deal of water in her. He allowed her to drift towards the harbour entrance, and, letting the tiller swing about, squatted down and busied himself in loosening the plug. With that out she would fill very quickly, and every lighter carried a little iron ballast--enough to make her go down when full of water. When he stood up again the noisy wash about the Hermosa sounded far away, almost inaudible; and already he could make out the shape of land about the harbour entrance. This was a desperate affair, and he was a good swimmer. A mile was nothing to him, and he knew of an easy place for landing just below the earthworks of the old abandoned fort. It occurred to him with a peculiar fascination that this fort was a good place in which to sleep the day through after so many sleepless nights. With one blow of the tiller he unshipped for the purpose, he knocked the plug out, but did not take the trouble to lower the sail. He felt the water welling up heavily about his legs before he leaped on to the taffrail. There, upright and motionless, in his shirt and trousers only, he stood waiting. When he had felt her settle he sprang far away with a mighty splash. At once he turned his head. The gloomy, clouded dawn from behind the mountains showed him on the smooth waters the upper corner of the sail, a dark wet triangle of canvas waving slightly to and fro. He saw it vanish, as if jerked under, and then struck out for the shore. PART THIRD THE LIGHTHOUSE CHAPTER ONE Directly the cargo boat had slipped away from the wharf and got lost in the darkness of the harbour the Europeans of Sulaco separated, to prepare for the coming of the Monterist regime, which was approaching Sulaco from the mountains, as well as from the sea. This bit of manual work in loading the silver was their last concerted action. It ended the three days of danger, during which, according to the newspaper press of Europe, their energy had preserved the town from the calamities of popular disorder. At the shore end of the jetty, Captain Mitchell said good-night and turned back. His intention was to walk the planks of the wharf till the steamer from Esmeralda turned up. The engineers of the railway staff, collecting their Basque and Italian workmen, marched them away to the railway yards, leaving the Custom House, so well defended on the first day of the riot, standing open to the four winds of heaven. Their men had conducted themselves bravely and faithfully during the famous "three days" of Sulaco. In a great part this faithfulness and that courage had been exercised in self-defence rather than in the cause of those material interests to which Charles Gould had pinned his faith. Amongst the cries of the mob not the least loud had been the cry of death to foreigners. It was, indeed, a lucky circumstance for Sulaco that the relations of those imported workmen with the people of the country had been uniformly bad from the first. Doctor Monygham, going to the door of Viola's kitchen, observed this retreat marking the end of the foreign interference, this withdrawal of the army of material progress from the field of Costaguana revolutions. Algarrobe torches carried on the outskirts of the moving body sent their penetrating aroma into his nostrils. Their light, sweeping along the front of the house, made the letters of the inscription, "Albergo d'ltalia Una," leap out black from end to end of the long wall. His eyes blinked in the clear blaze. Several young men, mostly fair and tall, shepherding this mob of dark bronzed heads, surmounted by the glint of slanting rifle barrels, nodded to him familiarly as they went by. The doctor was a well-known character. Some of them wondered what he was doing there. Then, on the flank of their workmen they tramped on, following the line of rails. "Withdrawing your people from the harbour?" said the doctor, addressing himself to the chief engineer of the railway, who had accompanied Charles Gould so far on his way to the town, walking by the side of the horse, with his hand on the saddle-bow. They had stopped just outside the open door to let the workmen cross the road. "As quick as I can. We are not a political faction," answered the engineer, meaningly. "And we are not going to give our new rulers a handle against the railway. You approve me, Gould?" "Absolutely," said Charles Gould's impassive voice, high up and outside the dim parallelogram of light falling on the road through the open door. With Sotillo expected from one side, and Pedro Montero from the other, the engineer-in-chief's only anxiety now was to avoid a collision with either. Sulaco, for him, was a railway station, a terminus, workshops, a great accumulation of stores. As against the mob the railway defended its property, but politically the railway was neutral. He was a brave man; and in that spirit of neutrality he had carried proposals of truce to the self-appointed chiefs of the popular party, the deputies Fuentes and Gamacho. Bullets were still flying about when he had crossed the Plaza on that mission, waving above his head a white napkin belonging to the table linen of the Amarilla Club. He was rather proud of this exploit; and reflecting that the doctor, busy all day with the wounded in the patio of the Casa Gould, had not had time to hear the news, he began a succinct narrative. He had communicated to them the intelligence from the Construction Camp as to Pedro Montero. The brother of the victorious general, he had assured them, could be expected at Sulaco at any time now. This news (as he anticipated), when shouted out of the window by Senor Gamacho, induced a rush of the mob along the Campo Road towards Rincon. The two deputies also, after shaking hands with him effusively, mounted and galloped off to meet the great man. "I have misled them a little as to the time," the chief engineer confessed. "However hard he rides, he can scarcely get here before the morning. But my object is attained. I've secured several hours' peace for the losing party. But I did not tell them anything about Sotillo, for fear they would take it into their heads to try to get hold of the harbour again, either to oppose him or welcome him--there's no saying which. There was Gould's silver, on which rests the remnant of our hopes. Decoud's retreat had to be thought of, too. I think the railway has done pretty well by its friends without compromising itself hopelessly. Now the parties must be left to themselves." "Costaguana for the Costaguaneros," interjected the doctor, sardonically. "It is a fine country, and they have raised a fine crop of hates, vengeance, murder, and rapine--those sons of the country." "Well, I am one of them," Charles Gould's voice sounded, calmly, "and I must be going on to see to my own crop of trouble. My wife has driven straight on, doctor?" "Yes. All was quiet on this side. Mrs. Gould has taken the two girls with her." Charles Gould rode on, and the engineer-in-chief followed the doctor indoors. "That man is calmness personified," he said, appreciatively, dropping on a bench, and stretching his well-shaped legs in cycling stockings nearly across the doorway. "He must be extremely sure of himself." "If that's all he is sure of, then he is sure of nothing," said the doctor. He had perched himself again on the end of the table. He nursed his cheek in the palm of one hand, while the other sustained the elbow. "It is the last thing a man ought to be sure of." The candle, half-consumed and burning dimly with a long wick, lighted up from below his inclined face, whose expression affected by the drawn-in cicatrices in the cheeks, had something vaguely unnatural, an exaggerated remorseful bitterness. As he sat there he had the air of meditating upon sinister things. The engineer-in-chief gazed at him for a time before he protested. "I really don't see that. For me there seems to be nothing else. However----" He was a wise man, but he could not quite conceal his contempt for that sort of paradox; in fact. Dr. Monygham was not liked by the Europeans of Sulaco. His outward aspect of an outcast, which he preserved even in Mrs. Gould's drawing-room, provoked unfavourable criticism. There could be no doubt of his intelligence; and as he had lived for over twenty years in the country, the pessimism of his outlook could not be altogether ignored. But instinctively, in self-defence of their activities and hopes, his hearers put it to the account of some hidden imperfection in the man's character. It was known that many years before, when quite young, he had been made by Guzman Bento chief medical officer of the army. Not one of the Europeans then in the service of Costaguana had been so much liked and trusted by the fierce old Dictator. Afterwards his story was not so clear. It lost itself amongst the innumerable tales of conspiracies and plots against the tyrant as a stream is lost in an arid belt of sandy country before it emerges, diminished and troubled, perhaps, on the other side. The doctor made no secret of it that he had lived for years in the wildest parts of the Republic, wandering with almost unknown Indian tribes in the great forests of the far interior where the great rivers have their sources. But it was mere aimless wandering; he had written nothing, collected nothing, brought nothing for science out of the twilight of the forests, which seemed to cling to his battered personality limping about Sulaco, where it had drifted in casually, only to get stranded on the shores of the sea. It was also known that he had lived in a state of destitution till the arrival of the Goulds from Europe. Don Carlos and Dona Emilia had taken up the mad English doctor, when it became apparent that for all his savage independence he could be tamed by kindness. Perhaps it was only hunger that had tamed him. In years gone by he had certainly been acquainted with Charles Gould's father in Sta. Marta; and now, no matter what were the dark passages of his history, as the medical officer of the San Tome mine he became a recognized personality. He was recognized, but not unreservedly accepted. So much defiant eccentricity and such an outspoken scorn for mankind seemed to point to mere recklessness of judgment, the bravado of guilt. Besides, since he had become again of some account, vague whispers had been heard that years ago, when fallen into disgrace and thrown into prison by Guzman Bento at the time of the so-called Great Conspiracy, he had betrayed some of his best friends amongst the conspirators. Nobody pretended to believe that whisper; the whole story of the Great Conspiracy was hopelessly involved and obscure; it is admitted in Costaguana that there never had been a conspiracy except in the diseased imagination of the Tyrant; and, therefore, nothing and no one to betray; though the most distinguished Costaguaneros had been imprisoned and executed upon that accusation. The procedure had dragged on for years, decimating the better class like a pestilence. The mere expression of sorrow for the fate of executed kinsmen had been punished with death. Don Jose Avellanos was perhaps the only one living who knew the whole story of those unspeakable cruelties. He had suffered from them himself, and he, with a shrug of the shoulders and a nervous, jerky gesture of the arm, was wont to put away from him, as it were, every allusion to it. But whatever the reason, Dr. Monygham, a personage in the administration of the Gould Concession, treated with reverent awe by the miners, and indulged in his peculiarities by Mrs. Gould, remained somehow outside the pale. It was not from any liking for the doctor that the engineer-in-chief had lingered in the inn upon the plain. He liked old Viola much better. He had come to look upon the Albergo d'ltalia Una as a dependence of the railway. Many of his subordinates had their quarters there. Mrs. Gould's interest in the family conferred upon it a sort of distinction. The engineer-in-chief, with an army of workers under his orders, appreciated the moral influence of the old Garibaldino upon his countrymen. His austere, old-world Republicanism had a severe, soldier-like standard of faithfulness and duty, as if the world were a battlefield where men had to fight for the sake of universal love and brotherhood, instead of a more or less large share of booty. "Poor old chap!" he said, after he had heard the doctor's account of Teresa. "He'll never be able to keep the place going by himself. I shall be sorry." "He's quite alone up there," grunted Doctor Monygham, with a toss of his heavy head towards the narrow staircase. "Every living soul has cleared out, and Mrs. Gould took the girls away just now. It might not be over-safe for them out here before very long. Of course, as a doctor I can do nothing more here; but she has asked me to stay with old Viola, and as I have no horse to get back to the mine, where I ought to be, I made no difficulty to stay. They can do without me in the town." "I have a good mind to remain with you, doctor, till we see whether anything happens to-night at the harbour," declared the engineer-in-chief. "He must not be molested by Sotillo's soldiery, who may push on as far as this at once. Sotillo used to be very cordial to me at the Goulds' and at the club. How that man'll ever dare to look any of his friends here in the face

absolute

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

was damn funny. Jo moves close to KAFFEE to say this with a degree of confidentiality. JO I do know you. Daniel AlliStair Kaffee, born June 8th, 1964 at Boston Mercy Hospital. Your father's Lionel Kaffee, former Navy Judge Advocate and Attorney General, of the United States, died 1985. You went to Harvard Law on a Navy scholarship, probably because that's what your father wanted you to do, and now you're just treading water for the three years you've gotta serve in the JAG Corps, just kinda layin' low til you can get out and get a real job. And if that's the situation, that's fine, I won't tell anyone. But my feeling is that if this case is handled in the same fast-food, slick-ass, Persian Bazaar manner with which you seem to handle everything else, something's gonna get missed. And I wouldn't be doing my job if I allowed Dawson and Downey to spend any more time in prison than absolutely necessary, because their attorney had pre- determined the path of least resistance. KAFFEE can't help but be impressed by that speech. KAFFEE Wow. (beat) I'm sexually aroused, Commander. JO I don't think your clients murdered anybody. KAFFEE What are you basing this on? JO There was no intent. KAFFEE The doctor's report says that Santiago died of asphyxiation brought on by acute lactic acidosis, and that the nature of the acidosis strongly suggests poisoning. (beat) Now, I don't know what any of that means, but it sounds pretty bad. JO Santiago died at one a.m. At three the doctor was unable to determine the cause of death, but two hours later he said it was poison. KAFFEE Oh, now I see what you're saying. It had to be Professor Plum in the library with the candlestick. JO I'm gonna speak to your supervisor. KAFFEE Okay. You go straight up Pennsylvania Avenue. It's a big white house with pillars in front. JO Thank you. KAFFEE I don't think you'll have much luck, though. I was assigned by Division, remember? Somebody over there thinks I'm a good lawyer. So while I appreciate your interest and admire your enthusiasm, I think I can pretty much handle things myself. JO Do you know what a code red is? KAFFEE doesn't, but he doesn't say anything. JO (continuing) What a pity. CUT TO: INT. THE BRIG - DAY And an M.P. is leading KAFFEE and SAM down to DAWSON and DOWNEY's cell. M.P. Officer on deck, ten-hut. DAWSON and DOWNEY come to attention. Through the following, the M.P. will unlock the call door and let the lawyers in. DAWSON Sir, Lance Corporal Harold W. Dawson, sir. Rifle Security Company Windward, Second Platoon, Delta. KAFFEE Someone hasn't been working and playing well with others, Harold. DAWSON Sir, yes sir! DOWNEY Sir, PFC Louden Downey. KAFFEE I'm Daniel Kaffee, this is Sam Weinerg, you can sitdown. DAWSON and DOWNEY aren't too comfortable sitting in the presence of officers, but they do as they're told. KAFFEE's pulled out some documents, SAM's sitting on one of the cots taking notes. KAFFEE (continuing; to DAWSON) Is this your signature? DAWSON Yes sir. KAFFEE You don't have to call me sir. (to DOWNEY) Is this your signature? DOWNEY Sir, yes sir. KAFFEE And you certainly don't have to do it twice in one sentence. Harold, what's a Code Red? DAWSON Sir, a Code Red is a disciplinary engagement. KAFFEE What does that mean, exactly? DAWSON Sir, a marine falls out of line, it's up to the men in his unit to get him back on track. KAFFEE What's a garden variety Code Red? DAWSON Sir? KAFFEE Harold, you say sir and I turn around and look for my father. Danny, Daniel, Kaffee. Garden variety; typical. What's a basic Code Red? DAWSON Sir, a marine has refused to bathe on a regular basis. The men in his squad would give him a G.I. shower. KAFFEE What's that? DAWSON Scrub brushes, brillo pads, steel wool... SAM Beautiful. KAFFEE Was the attack on Santiago a Code Red? DAWSON Yes sir. KAFFEE (to DOWNEY) Do you ever talk? DAWSON Sir, Private Downey will answer any direct questions you ask him. KAFFEE Swell. Private Downey, the rag you stuffed in Santiago's mouth, was there poison on it? DOWNEY No sir. KAFFEE Silver polish, turpentine, anti- freeze... DOWNEY No sir. We were gonna shave his head, sir. KAFFEE When all of a sudden...? DOWNEY We saw blood drippinq out of his mouth. Then we pulled the tape off, and there was blood all down his face, sir. That's when Corporal Dawson called the ambulance. KAFFEE tries not to make too big a deal out of this last piece of news. KAFFEE (to DAWSON) Did anyone see you call the ambulance? DAWSON No sir. KAFFEE Were you there when the ambulance got there? DAWSON Yes sir, that's when we were taken under arrest. KAFFEE kinda strolls to the corner of the cell to think for a moment. SAM (to DAWSON) On the night of August 2nd, did you fire a shot across the fenceline into Cuba? DAWSON Yes sir. SAM Why? DAWSON My mirror engaged, sir. KAFFEE (to SAM) His mirror engaged? SAM For each American sentry post there's a Cuban counterpart. They're called mirrors. The corporal's claiming that his mirror was about to fire at him. KAFFEE Santiago's letter to the NIS said you fired illegally. He's saying that the guy, the mirror, he never made a move. DAWSON says nothing. KAFFEE (continuing) Oh, Harold? SAM is staring at DAWSON. KAFFEE (continuing) You see what I'm getting at? If Santiago didn't have anything on you, then why did you give him a Code Red? DAWSON Because he broke the chain of command, sir. KAFFEE He what? DAWSON He went outside his unit, sir. If he had a problem, he should've spoken to me, sir. Then his Sergeant, then Company Commander, then -- KAFFEE Yeah, yeah, alright. Harold, did you assault Santiago with the intent of killing him? DAWSON No sir. KAFFEE What was your intent? DAWSON To train him, sir. KAFFEE Train him to do what? DAWSON Train him to think of his unit before himself. To respect the code. SAM What's the code? DAWSON Unit Corps God Country. SAM I beg your pardon? DAWSON Unit Corps God Country, sir. KAFFEE The Goverrment of the United States wants to charge you two with murder. You want me to go to the prosecutor with unit, corps, god, country? DAWSON stares at KAFFEE. DAWSON That's our code, sir. KAFFEE takes a long moment. He picks up his briefcase and he and SAM move to the door. KAFFEE We'll be back. You guys need anything? Books paper, cigarettes, a ham sandwich? DAWSON Sir. No thank you. Sir. KAFFEE smiles at DAWSON. KAFFEE Harold, I think there's a concept you better start warming up to. DAWSON Sir? KAFFEE I'm the only friend you've got. And as KAFFEE and SAM walk out the open cell door, DAWSON and DOWNEY come to attention and snap a salute. They hold the salute until KAFFEE and SAM are well out of sight, and we CUT TO: INT. KAFFEE'S OFFICE - DAY He's packing up stuff into his briefcase at the end of the work day. Lt. JACK ROSS, a marine lawyer maybe two years older than Kaffee, opens the door and walks in.. ROSS Dan Kaffee. KAFFEE Sailin' Jack Ross. ROSS Welcome to the big time. KAFFEE You think so? ROSS I hope for Dawson and Downey's sake you practice law better than you play softball. KAFFEE Unfortunately for Dawson and Downey, I don't do anything better than I play softball. What are we lookin' at? ROSS They plead guilty to manslaughter, I'll drop the conspiracy and the conduct unbecoming. 20 years, they'll be home in half that time. KAFFEE I want twelve. ROSS Can't do it. KAFFEE They called the ambulance, Jack. ROSS I don't care if they called the Avon Lady, they killed a marine. KAFFEE The rag was tested for poison. The autopsy, lab report, even the initial E.R. and C.O.D. reports. They all say the same thing: Maybe, maybe not. ROSS The Chief of Internal Medicine at the Guantanamo Bay Naval hospital says he's sure. KAFFEE What do you know about Code Reds? ROSS smiles and shakes his head. ROSS Oh man. He closes the office door. ROSS (continuing) Are we off the record? KAFFEE You tell me. ROSS (pause) I'm gonna give you the twelve years, but before you go getting yourself into trouble tomorrow, you should know this: The platoon commander Lt. Jonathan Kendrick, had a meeting with the men. And he specifically told them not to touch Santiago. KAFFEE holds for a moment. Dawson and Downey neglected to mention this... He packs up his briefcase and cleats. KAFFEE I'll talk to you when I get back. ROSS Hey, we got a little four-on-four going tomorrow night. When does your plane get in? CUT TO: EXT. THE PARKING LOT - DUSK It's dusk and people on the base are going home from work. We can see the flag being lowered in the background. KAFFEE's walking toward his car. JO intercepts him and starts walking along with him. JO Hi there. KAFFEE Any luck getting me replaced? JO Is there anyone in this command that you don't either drink or play softball with? KAFFEE Commander -- JO Listen, I came to make peace. We started off on the wrong foot. What do you say? Friends? KAFFEE Look, I don't -- JO By the way, I brought Downey some comic books he was asking for. The kid, Kaffee, I swear, he doesn't know where he is, he doesn't even know why he's been arrested. KAFFEE Commander -- JO You can call me Joanne. KAFFEE Joanne -- JO or Jo. KAFFEE Jo? JO Yes. KAFFEE Jo, if you ever speak to a client of mine again without my permission, I'll have you disbarred. Friends? JO I had authorization. KAFFEE From where? JO Downey's closest living relative, Ginny Miller, his aunt on his mother's side. KAFFEE You got authorization from Aunt Ginny? JO I gave her a call like you asked. Very nice woman, we talked for about an hour. KAFFEE You got authorization from Aunt Ginny. JO Perfectly within my province. KAFFEE Does Aunt Ginny have a barn? We can hold the trial there. I can sew the costumes, and maybe his Uncle Goober can be the judge. Jo steps aside and lets KAFFEE got into his car. JO I'm going to Cuba with you tomorrow. KAFFEE And the hits just keep on comin'. HOLD on KAFFEE and Jo. JO smiles. CUT TO: EXT. SIDEWALK NEWSSTAND - DUSK KAFFEE IN HIS CAR He's driving down a Washington street and pulls over at a sidewalk newsstand. He gets out of his car, leaving the lights flashing, and runs up to the newsstand. As he plunks his 35 cents down and picks up a newspaper, he engages in his daily ritual with LUTHER, the newsstand operator. KAFFEE How's it goin', Luther? LUTHER Another day, another dollar, captain. KAFFEE You gotta play 'em as they lay, Luther. LUTHER What comes around, goes around, you know what I'm sayin'. KAFFEE If you can't beat 'em, join 'em. LUTHER Hey, if you've got your health, you got everything. KAFFEE Love makes the world go round. I'll see you tomorrow, Luther. And we CUT TO: INT. SAM'S LIVING ROOM - NIGHT A baby sleeping in a crib pull rack to reveal SAM is standing over the crib. KAFFEE's sitting on a beer. SAM When Nancy gets back, you're my witness. The baby spoke. My daughter said a word. KAFFEE Your daughter made a sound, Sam, I'm not sure it was a word. SAM Oh come on, it was a word. KAFFEE Okay. SAM You heard her. The girl sat here, pointed, and said "Pa". She did. She said "Pa". KAFFEE She was pointing at a doorknob. SAM That's right. Pointing, as if to say, "Pa, look, a doorknob". SAM joins KAFFEE in the living room. KAFFEE Jack Ross came to see me today. He offered me twelve years. SAM That's what you wanted. KAFFEE I know, and I'll... I guess, I mean -- (beat) I'll take it. SAM So? KAFFEE It took albout 45 seconds. He barely put up a fight. SAM (beat) Danny, take the twelve years, it's a gift. KAFFEE finishes off his beer, and stands. KAFFEE You don't believe their story, do you? You think they ought to go to jail for the rest of their lives. SAM I believe every word they said. And I think they ought to go to jail for the rest of their lives. KAFFEE nods and puts down the empty beer bottle. KAFFEE I'll see you tomorrow. Sam opens the front door for him and they stand out on the stoop for a moment. SAM Remember to wear your whites, it's hot down there. KAFFEE I don't like the whites. SAM Nobody likes the whites, but we're going to Cuba in August. You got Dramamine? KAFFEE Dramamine keeps you cool? SAM Dramamine keeps you from throwing up, you get sick when you fly. KAFFEE I get sick when I fly because I'm afraid of crashing into a large mountain, I don't think Dramamine'll help. SAM I've got some oregano, I hear that works pretty good. KAFFEE Yeah, right. KAFFEE starts toward his car, then turns around. KAFFEE (continuing) You know, Ross said the strangest thing to me right before I left. He said the platoon commander Lieutenant Jonathan Kendrick had a meeting with the men and specifically told them not to touch Santiago. SAM So? KAFFEE I never mentioned Kendrick. I don't even know who he is. (beat) What the hell. (beat) I'll see you tomorrow. We hold for a moment on KAFFEE as he walks to his car, then CUT TO: EXT. THE AIRSTRIP AT GUANTANAMO BAY - DAY The whole place, in stark contrast to the Washington Navy Yard, is ready to go to war. Fighter jets line the tarmac. Ground crews re-fuel planes. Hurried activity. A 36 seat Airforce Jet rolls to a stop on the tarmac and a stair unit is brought up. HOWARD, a marine corporal, is waiting by the stairway as the passengers begin to got off. Mostly MARINES, a few SAILORS, a couple of CIVILIANS, and KAFFEE, JO and SAM. KAFFEE and SAM are wearing their summer whites, JO is in khakis. KAFFEE and SAM stare out at what they see: They're not in Kansas anymore. HOWARD shouts over the noise from the planes. HOWARD Lieutenants Kaffee and Weinberg? KAFFEE (shouting) Yeah. JO Commander Galloway. HOWARD I'm Corporal Howard, ma'am, I'm to escort you to the Windward side of the base. JO Thank you. HOWARD I've got some camouflage jackets in the back of the jeep, sirs, I'll have to ask you both to put them on. KAFFEE Camouflage jackets? HOWARD Regulations, sir. We'll be riding pretty close to the fenceline. The Cubans see an officer wearing white, they think it's someone they might wanna take a shot at. KAFFEE turns and glares at SAM. KAFFEE Good call, Sam. CUT TO: EXT. CUBAN ROAD - THE JEEP - DAY Tearing along down the road, and now we see a beautiful expanse of water, maybe 1000 yards across. It's a section of Guantanamo Bay. HOWARD (shouting) We'll just hop on the ferry and be over there in no time. KAFFEE (shouting) Whoa! Hold it! We gotta take a boat?! HOWARD Yes sir, to get to the other side of the bay. KAFFEE Nobody said anything about a boat. HOWARD (shouting) Is there a problem, sir? KAFFEE (shouting) No. No problem. I'm just not that crazy about boats, that's all. JO (shouting) Jesus Christ, Kaffee, you're in the Navy for cryin' out loud! KAFFEE (shouting) Nobody likes her very much. HOWARD (shouting) Yes sir. The jeep drives on and we CUT TO: JESSEP, MARKINSON and KENDRICK are standing as the LAWYERS are led in. JESSEP Nathan Jessep, come on in and siddown. KAFFEE Thank you. I'm Daniel Kaffee, I'm the attorney for Dawson and Downey. This is Joanne Galloway, she's observing and evaluating -- JO (shaking hands) Colonel. JESSEP Pleased to meet you, Commander. KAFFEE Sam Weinberg. He has no responsibility here whatsoever. JESSEP I've asked Captain Markinson and Lt. Kendrick to join us. MARKINSON Lt. Kaffee, I had the pleasure of seeing your father once. I was a teenager and he spoke at my high school. KAFFEE smiles and nods. JESSEP Lionel Kaffee? KAFFEE Yes sir. JESSEP Well what do you know. Son, this man's dad once made a lot of enemies down in your neck of the woods. Jefferson vs. Madison County School District. The folks down there said a little black girl couldn't go to an all white school, Lionel Kaffee said we'll just see about that. How the hell is your dad? KAFFEE He passed away seven years ago, colonel. JESSEP (pause) Well... don't I feel like the fuckin, asshole. KAFFEE Not at all, sir. JESSEP Well, what can we do for you, Danny. KAFFEE Not much at all, sir, I'm afraid. This is really a formality more than anything else. The JAG Corps insists that I interview all the relevant witnesses. JO The JAG Corps can be demanding that way. JESSEP smiles. JESSEP Jonanthan'll take you out and show you what you wanna see, then we can all hook up for lunch, how does that sound? KAFFEE Fine, sir. CUT TO: EXT. THE FENCELINE - DAY A SQUAD OF MARINES jogs by as a jeep carrying KENDRICK and the three LAWYERS cruises down the road. We FOLLOW the jeep. KAFFEE I understand you had a meeting with your men that afternoon. KENDRICK Yes. KAFFEE What'd you guys talk about? KENDRICK I told the men that there was an informer among us. And that despite any desire they might have to seek retribution, Private Santiago was not to be harmed in any way. KAFFEE What time was that meeting? KENDRICK Sixteen-hundred. KAFFEE turns around and looks at SAM. SAM (leaning forward) Four o'clock. CUT TO: INT. THE BARRACKS CORRIDOR - DAY KENDRICK leads the LAWYERS down the corridor to Santiago's room. Two strips of tape which warn DO NOT ENTER - AT ORDER OF THE MILITARY POLICE are crisscrossed over the closed door. They open the door and step under the tape and walk into INT. SANTIAGO'S ROOM - DAY The room is exactly an it was left that night. The un-made bed, the chair knocked over... The LAWYERS look around for a moment. The room is sparse. Kaffee goes to the closet and opens it: A row of uniforms hanging neatly. He thumbs through then for a second, but there's nothing there. He opens the footlocker: Socks, underwear... all folded to marine corp precision... A shaving kit, a couple of photographs, a pad of writing paper and some envelopes... Kaffee closes the footlocker. KAFFEE Sam, somebody should see about getting this stuff to his parents. We don't need it anymore. KENDRICK Actually, the uniforms belong to the marine corps. The LAWYERS take a moment. KAFFEE Lt. Kendrick -- can I call you Jon? KENDRICK No, you may not. KAFFEE (beat) Have I done something to offend you? KENDRICK No, I like all you Navy boys. Every time we've gotta go someplace and fight, you fellas always give us a ride. JO Lt. Kendrick, do you think Santiago was murdered? KENDRICK Commander, I believe in God, and in his son Jesus Christ, and because I do, I can say this: Private Santiago is dead and that's a tragedy. But he's dead because he had no code. He's dead because he had no honor. And God was watching. SAM turns to KAFFEE. SAM How do you feel about that theory? KAFFEE (beat) Sounds good. Let's move on. SAM and KENDRICK walk out the door. JO stops KAFFEE. JO You planning on doing any investigating or are you just gonna take the guided tour? KAFFEE (beat) I'm pacing myself. CUT TO: INT. THE OFFICERS CLUB - DAY JESSEP, MARKINSON, KENDRICK and the LAWYERS are seated at a table in the corner. Stewards clear the lunch dishes and pour coffee. Jessep is finishing a story. JESSEP ...And they spent the next three hours running around, looking for Americans to surrender to. JESSEP laughs. KENDRICK joins him. SAM and KAFFEE force a laugh. MARKINSON forces a smile. JO remains silent. JESSEP (continuing; to the STEWARDS) That was delicious, men, thank you. STEWARD Our pleasure, sir. KAFFEE Colonel just need to ask you a couple of questions about August 6th. JESSEP Shoot. KAFFEE On the morning of the sixth, you were contacted by an NIS angent who said that Santiago had tipped him off to an illegal fenceline shooting. JESSEP Yes. KAFFEE Santiago was gonna reveal the person's name in exchange for a transfer. An I getting this right? JESSEP Yes. KAFFEE If you feel there are any details that I'm missing, you should free to speak up. JESSEP's not quite sure what to say to this Navy Lawyer Lieutenant-Smartass guy who just gave him permission to speak freely on his own base. JESSEP Thank you. KAFFEE Now it was at this point that you called Captain Markinson and Lt. Kendrick into your office? JESSEP Yes. KAFFEE And what happened then? JESSEP We agreed that for his own safety, Santiago should be transferred off the base. Here's something else KAFFEE didn't know. Neither did Jo. SAM jots something down on a small notepad. MARKINSON doesn't flinch. KAFFEE Santiago was set to be transferred? JESSEP On the first available flight to the states. Six the next morning. Three hours too late as it turned out. KAFFEE nods. KAFFEE Yeah. There's silence for a moment. KAFFEE takes a sip of his coffee. Then drains the cup and puts it down. KAFFEE (continuing) Alright, that's all I have. Thanks very much for your time. KENDRICK The corporal's got the jeep outside, he'll take you back to the airstrip. KAFFEE (standing) Thank you. JO Wait a minute, I've got some questions. KAFFEE No you don't. JO Yes I do. KAFFEE No you don't. JO Colonel, on the morning that Santiago died, did you meet with Doctor Stone between three and five? KAFFEE Jo -- JESSEP Of course I met with the doctor. One of my men was dead. KAFFEE (to JO) See? The man was dead. Let's go. JO (to JESSEP) I was wondering if you've ever heard the term Code Red. KAFFEE Jo -- JESSEP I've heard the term, yes. JO Colonel, this past February, you received a cautionary memo from the Naval Investigative Service, warning that the practice of enlisted men disciplining their own wasn't to be condoned by officers. JESSEP I submit to you that whoever wrote that memo has never served on the working end of a Soviet-made Cuban Ml-Al6 Assault Rifle. However, the directive having come from the NIS, I gave it its due attention. What's your point, Jo? KAFFEE She has no point. She often has no point. It's part of her charm. We're outta here. Thank you. JO My point is that I think code reds still go on down here. Do Code Reds still happen on this base, colonel? KAFFEE Jo, the colonel doesn't need to answer that. JO Yes he does. KAFFEE No, he really doesn't. JO Yeah, he really does. Colonel? JESSEP You know it just hit me. She outranks you, Danny. KAFFEE Yes sir. JESSEP I want to tell you something Danny and listen up 'cause I mean this: You're the luckiest man in the world. There is, believe me gentlemen, nothing sexier on earth than a woman you have to salute in the morning. Promote 'em all I say. JO's not upset. JO's not mad. But she's gonna ask her question 'til she gets an answer. JO Colonel, the practice of code Reds is still condoned by officers on this base, isn't it? JESSEP You see my problem is, of course, that I'm a Colonel. I'll just have to keep taking cold showers 'til they elect some gal President. JO I need an answer to my question, sir. JESSEP Take caution in your tone, Commander. I'm a fair guy, but this fuckin' heat's making me absolutely crazy. You want to know about code reds? On the record I tell you that I discourage the practice in accordance with the NIS directive. Off the record I tell you that it's an invaluable part of close infantry training, and if it happens to go on without my knowledge, so be it. I run my base how I run my base. You want to investigate me, roll the dice and take your chances. I eat breakfast 80 yards away from 4000 Cubans who are trained to kill me. So don't for one second think you're gonna come down here, flash a badge, and make me nervous. A moment of tense silence before -- KAFFEE Let's go. Colonel, I'll just need a copy of Santiago's transfer order. JESSEP What's that? KAFFEE Santiago's transfer order. You guys have paper work on that kind of thing, I just need it for the file. JESSEP For the file. KAFFEE Yeah. JESSEP (pause) Of course you can have a copy of the transfer order. For the file. I'm here to help anyway I can. KAFFEE Thank you. JESSEP You believe that, don't you? Danny? That I'm here to help anyway I can? KAFFEE Of course. JESSEP The corporal'll run you by Ordinance on your way out to the airstrip. You can have all the transfer orders you want. KAFFEE (to JO and SAM) Let's go. The LAWYERS start to leave. JESSEP But you have to ask me nicely. KAFFEE stops. Turns around. Sam and JO stop and turn. KAFFEE I beg your pardon? JESSEP You have to ask me nicely. You see, Danny, I can deal with the bullets and the bombs and the blood. I can deal with the heat and the stress and the fear. I don't want money and I don't want medals. What I want is for you to stand there in that faggoty white uniform, and with your Harvard mouth, extend me some fuckin' courtesy. You gotta ask me nicely. KAFFEE and JESSEP are frozen. Everyone'staring at Kaffee; The OFFICERS at their tables... KENDRICK... SAM... MARKINSON... JO... KAFFEE makes his decision. KAFFEE Colonel Jessep... if it's not too much trouble, I'd like a copy of the transfer order. Sir. JESSEP smiles. JESSEP No problem. HOLD for a moment. JO's very disappointed. JESSEP stands there and watches the LAWYERS as they turn and leave the Officer's Club. JESSEP (continuing) I hate casualties, Matthew. There are casualties even in victory. A marine smothers a grenade and saves his platoon, that marine's a hero. The foundation of the unit, the fabric of this base, the spirit of the Corps, they are things worth fighting for. MARKINSON looks at the ground. JESSEP (continuing) Dawson and Downey, they don't know it, but they're smothering a grenade. MARKINSON looks up as we CUT TO: EXT. ANDREWS AIRFORCE BASE - DUSK As a plane touches down on the runway. It's dusk in Washington and CUT TO: EXT. KAFFEE'S APARTMENT - DAY A little one-bedroom. Just the essential furniture, barely even that. KAFFEE's sitting and watching a baseball came on t.v. He's holding a copy of The Baseball Encyclopedia, normally his favorite reading material, but right now he's having trouble keeping his mind in it. He's holding a baseball bat and fiddling with it. The remnants of a pizza and Yoo-Hoo dinner sit next to him. His white uniform in a pile in the corner. There's a BUZZ at the door. KAFFEE's not expecting anyone. He goes to the door. KAFFEE Who is it? JO (O.S.) It's me. KAFFEE opens the door and JO walks in. KAFFEE I've really missed you, Jo. I was just saying to myself, "It's been almost three hours since I last saw -- " JO Markinson resigned his commission. KAFFEE (pause) When? JO This afternoon. Sometime after we left. KAFFEE I'll talk to him in the morning. JO I already tried, I can't find him. KAFFEE You tried? Joanne, you're coming dangerously close to the textbook definition of interfering with a government investigation. JO hands KAFFEE the file she's been holding. JO I'm Louden Downey's attorney. KAFFEE's stunned. He opens the file and begins to read. JO (continuing) Aunt Ginny. She said she feels like she's known me for years. I suggested that she might feel more comfortable if I were directly involved with the case. She had Louden sign the papers about an hour ago. KAFFEE looks up. Still too stunned to say anything. Then finally... KAFFEE I suppose it's way too much to hope that you're just making this up to bother me. JO Don't worry, I'm not gonna make a motion for separation, you're still lead counsel. KAFFEE hands her back the file. KAFFEE Splendid. JO I think Kendrick ordered the Code Red. (beat) So do you. CUT TO: INT. A HOLDING ROOM IN THE BRIG - NIGHT DAWSON and DOWNEY come to attention as KAFFEE and JO are led in. DAWSON Officer on deck, ten hut. KAFFEE starts in immediately. KAFFEE Did Kendrick order the code red? DAWSON Sir? KAFFEE Don't say sir like I just asked you if you cleaned the latrine. You heard what I said. Did Lt. Kendrick order you guys to give Santiago a code red? DAWSON Yes sir. KAFFEE (to Downey) Did he? DOWNEY Yes sir. KAFFEE You mind telling me why the hell you never mentioned this before? DAWSON You didn't ask us, sir. KAFFEE Cutie-pie shit's not gonna win you a place in my heart, corporal, I get paid no matter how much time you spend in jail. DAWSON Yes

marines

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

was damn funny. Jo moves close to KAFFEE to say this with a degree of confidentiality. JO I do know you. Daniel AlliStair Kaffee, born June 8th, 1964 at Boston Mercy Hospital. Your father's Lionel Kaffee, former Navy Judge Advocate and Attorney General, of the United States, died 1985. You went to Harvard Law on a Navy scholarship, probably because that's what your father wanted you to do, and now you're just treading water for the three years you've gotta serve in the JAG Corps, just kinda layin' low til you can get out and get a real job. And if that's the situation, that's fine, I won't tell anyone. But my feeling is that if this case is handled in the same fast-food, slick-ass, Persian Bazaar manner with which you seem to handle everything else, something's gonna get missed. And I wouldn't be doing my job if I allowed Dawson and Downey to spend any more time in prison than absolutely necessary, because their attorney had pre- determined the path of least resistance. KAFFEE can't help but be impressed by that speech. KAFFEE Wow. (beat) I'm sexually aroused, Commander. JO I don't think your clients murdered anybody. KAFFEE What are you basing this on? JO There was no intent. KAFFEE The doctor's report says that Santiago died of asphyxiation brought on by acute lactic acidosis, and that the nature of the acidosis strongly suggests poisoning. (beat) Now, I don't know what any of that means, but it sounds pretty bad. JO Santiago died at one a.m. At three the doctor was unable to determine the cause of death, but two hours later he said it was poison. KAFFEE Oh, now I see what you're saying. It had to be Professor Plum in the library with the candlestick. JO I'm gonna speak to your supervisor. KAFFEE Okay. You go straight up Pennsylvania Avenue. It's a big white house with pillars in front. JO Thank you. KAFFEE I don't think you'll have much luck, though. I was assigned by Division, remember? Somebody over there thinks I'm a good lawyer. So while I appreciate your interest and admire your enthusiasm, I think I can pretty much handle things myself. JO Do you know what a code red is? KAFFEE doesn't, but he doesn't say anything. JO (continuing) What a pity. CUT TO: INT. THE BRIG - DAY And an M.P. is leading KAFFEE and SAM down to DAWSON and DOWNEY's cell. M.P. Officer on deck, ten-hut. DAWSON and DOWNEY come to attention. Through the following, the M.P. will unlock the call door and let the lawyers in. DAWSON Sir, Lance Corporal Harold W. Dawson, sir. Rifle Security Company Windward, Second Platoon, Delta. KAFFEE Someone hasn't been working and playing well with others, Harold. DAWSON Sir, yes sir! DOWNEY Sir, PFC Louden Downey. KAFFEE I'm Daniel Kaffee, this is Sam Weinerg, you can sitdown. DAWSON and DOWNEY aren't too comfortable sitting in the presence of officers, but they do as they're told. KAFFEE's pulled out some documents, SAM's sitting on one of the cots taking notes. KAFFEE (continuing; to DAWSON) Is this your signature? DAWSON Yes sir. KAFFEE You don't have to call me sir. (to DOWNEY) Is this your signature? DOWNEY Sir, yes sir. KAFFEE And you certainly don't have to do it twice in one sentence. Harold, what's a Code Red? DAWSON Sir, a Code Red is a disciplinary engagement. KAFFEE What does that mean, exactly? DAWSON Sir, a marine falls out of line, it's up to the men in his unit to get him back on track. KAFFEE What's a garden variety Code Red? DAWSON Sir? KAFFEE Harold, you say sir and I turn around and look for my father. Danny, Daniel, Kaffee. Garden variety; typical. What's a basic Code Red? DAWSON Sir, a marine has refused to bathe on a regular basis. The men in his squad would give him a G.I. shower. KAFFEE What's that? DAWSON Scrub brushes, brillo pads, steel wool... SAM Beautiful. KAFFEE Was the attack on Santiago a Code Red? DAWSON Yes sir. KAFFEE (to DOWNEY) Do you ever talk? DAWSON Sir, Private Downey will answer any direct questions you ask him. KAFFEE Swell. Private Downey, the rag you stuffed in Santiago's mouth, was there poison on it? DOWNEY No sir. KAFFEE Silver polish, turpentine, anti- freeze... DOWNEY No sir. We were gonna shave his head, sir. KAFFEE When all of a sudden...? DOWNEY We saw blood drippinq out of his mouth. Then we pulled the tape off, and there was blood all down his face, sir. That's when Corporal Dawson called the ambulance. KAFFEE tries not to make too big a deal out of this last piece of news. KAFFEE (to DAWSON) Did anyone see you call the ambulance? DAWSON No sir. KAFFEE Were you there when the ambulance got there? DAWSON Yes sir, that's when we were taken under arrest. KAFFEE kinda strolls to the corner of the cell to think for a moment. SAM (to DAWSON) On the night of August 2nd, did you fire a shot across the fenceline into Cuba? DAWSON Yes sir. SAM Why? DAWSON My mirror engaged, sir. KAFFEE (to SAM) His mirror engaged? SAM For each American sentry post there's a Cuban counterpart. They're called mirrors. The corporal's claiming that his mirror was about to fire at him. KAFFEE Santiago's letter to the NIS said you fired illegally. He's saying that the guy, the mirror, he never made a move. DAWSON says nothing. KAFFEE (continuing) Oh, Harold? SAM is staring at DAWSON. KAFFEE (continuing) You see what I'm getting at? If Santiago didn't have anything on you, then why did you give him a Code Red? DAWSON Because he broke the chain of command, sir. KAFFEE He what? DAWSON He went outside his unit, sir. If he had a problem, he should've spoken to me, sir. Then his Sergeant, then Company Commander, then -- KAFFEE Yeah, yeah, alright. Harold, did you assault Santiago with the intent of killing him? DAWSON No sir. KAFFEE What was your intent? DAWSON To train him, sir. KAFFEE Train him to do what? DAWSON Train him to think of his unit before himself. To respect the code. SAM What's the code? DAWSON Unit Corps God Country. SAM I beg your pardon? DAWSON Unit Corps God Country, sir. KAFFEE The Goverrment of the United States wants to charge you two with murder. You want me to go to the prosecutor with unit, corps, god, country? DAWSON stares at KAFFEE. DAWSON That's our code, sir. KAFFEE takes a long moment. He picks up his briefcase and he and SAM move to the door. KAFFEE We'll be back. You guys need anything? Books paper, cigarettes, a ham sandwich? DAWSON Sir. No thank you. Sir. KAFFEE smiles at DAWSON. KAFFEE Harold, I think there's a concept you better start warming up to. DAWSON Sir? KAFFEE I'm the only friend you've got. And as KAFFEE and SAM walk out the open cell door, DAWSON and DOWNEY come to attention and snap a salute. They hold the salute until KAFFEE and SAM are well out of sight, and we CUT TO: INT. KAFFEE'S OFFICE - DAY He's packing up stuff into his briefcase at the end of the work day. Lt. JACK ROSS, a marine lawyer maybe two years older than Kaffee, opens the door and walks in.. ROSS Dan Kaffee. KAFFEE Sailin' Jack Ross. ROSS Welcome to the big time. KAFFEE You think so? ROSS I hope for Dawson and Downey's sake you practice law better than you play softball. KAFFEE Unfortunately for Dawson and Downey, I don't do anything better than I play softball. What are we lookin' at? ROSS They plead guilty to manslaughter, I'll drop the conspiracy and the conduct unbecoming. 20 years, they'll be home in half that time. KAFFEE I want twelve. ROSS Can't do it. KAFFEE They called the ambulance, Jack. ROSS I don't care if they called the Avon Lady, they killed a marine. KAFFEE The rag was tested for poison. The autopsy, lab report, even the initial E.R. and C.O.D. reports. They all say the same thing: Maybe, maybe not. ROSS The Chief of Internal Medicine at the Guantanamo Bay Naval hospital says he's sure. KAFFEE What do you know about Code Reds? ROSS smiles and shakes his head. ROSS Oh man. He closes the office door. ROSS (continuing) Are we off the record? KAFFEE You tell me. ROSS (pause) I'm gonna give you the twelve years, but before you go getting yourself into trouble tomorrow, you should know this: The platoon commander Lt. Jonathan Kendrick, had a meeting with the men. And he specifically told them not to touch Santiago. KAFFEE holds for a moment. Dawson and Downey neglected to mention this... He packs up his briefcase and cleats. KAFFEE I'll talk to you when I get back. ROSS Hey, we got a little four-on-four going tomorrow night. When does your plane get in? CUT TO: EXT. THE PARKING LOT - DUSK It's dusk and people on the base are going home from work. We can see the flag being lowered in the background. KAFFEE's walking toward his car. JO intercepts him and starts walking along with him. JO Hi there. KAFFEE Any luck getting me replaced? JO Is there anyone in this command that you don't either drink or play softball with? KAFFEE Commander -- JO Listen, I came to make peace. We started off on the wrong foot. What do you say? Friends? KAFFEE Look, I don't -- JO By the way, I brought Downey some comic books he was asking for. The kid, Kaffee, I swear, he doesn't know where he is, he doesn't even know why he's been arrested. KAFFEE Commander -- JO You can call me Joanne. KAFFEE Joanne -- JO or Jo. KAFFEE Jo? JO Yes. KAFFEE Jo, if you ever speak to a client of mine again without my permission, I'll have you disbarred. Friends? JO I had authorization. KAFFEE From where? JO Downey's closest living relative, Ginny Miller, his aunt on his mother's side. KAFFEE You got authorization from Aunt Ginny? JO I gave her a call like you asked. Very nice woman, we talked for about an hour. KAFFEE You got authorization from Aunt Ginny. JO Perfectly within my province. KAFFEE Does Aunt Ginny have a barn? We can hold the trial there. I can sew the costumes, and maybe his Uncle Goober can be the judge. Jo steps aside and lets KAFFEE got into his car. JO I'm going to Cuba with you tomorrow. KAFFEE And the hits just keep on comin'. HOLD on KAFFEE and Jo. JO smiles. CUT TO: EXT. SIDEWALK NEWSSTAND - DUSK KAFFEE IN HIS CAR He's driving down a Washington street and pulls over at a sidewalk newsstand. He gets out of his car, leaving the lights flashing, and runs up to the newsstand. As he plunks his 35 cents down and picks up a newspaper, he engages in his daily ritual with LUTHER, the newsstand operator. KAFFEE How's it goin', Luther? LUTHER Another day, another dollar, captain. KAFFEE You gotta play 'em as they lay, Luther. LUTHER What comes around, goes around, you know what I'm sayin'. KAFFEE If you can't beat 'em, join 'em. LUTHER Hey, if you've got your health, you got everything. KAFFEE Love makes the world go round. I'll see you tomorrow, Luther. And we CUT TO: INT. SAM'S LIVING ROOM - NIGHT A baby sleeping in a crib pull rack to reveal SAM is standing over the crib. KAFFEE's sitting on a beer. SAM When Nancy gets back, you're my witness. The baby spoke. My daughter said a word. KAFFEE Your daughter made a sound, Sam, I'm not sure it was a word. SAM Oh come on, it was a word. KAFFEE Okay. SAM You heard her. The girl sat here, pointed, and said "Pa". She did. She said "Pa". KAFFEE She was pointing at a doorknob. SAM That's right. Pointing, as if to say, "Pa, look, a doorknob". SAM joins KAFFEE in the living room. KAFFEE Jack Ross came to see me today. He offered me twelve years. SAM That's what you wanted. KAFFEE I know, and I'll... I guess, I mean -- (beat) I'll take it. SAM So? KAFFEE It took albout 45 seconds. He barely put up a fight. SAM (beat) Danny, take the twelve years, it's a gift. KAFFEE finishes off his beer, and stands. KAFFEE You don't believe their story, do you? You think they ought to go to jail for the rest of their lives. SAM I believe every word they said. And I think they ought to go to jail for the rest of their lives. KAFFEE nods and puts down the empty beer bottle. KAFFEE I'll see you tomorrow. Sam opens the front door for him and they stand out on the stoop for a moment. SAM Remember to wear your whites, it's hot down there. KAFFEE I don't like the whites. SAM Nobody likes the whites, but we're going to Cuba in August. You got Dramamine? KAFFEE Dramamine keeps you cool? SAM Dramamine keeps you from throwing up, you get sick when you fly. KAFFEE I get sick when I fly because I'm afraid of crashing into a large mountain, I don't think Dramamine'll help. SAM I've got some oregano, I hear that works pretty good. KAFFEE Yeah, right. KAFFEE starts toward his car, then turns around. KAFFEE (continuing) You know, Ross said the strangest thing to me right before I left. He said the platoon commander Lieutenant Jonathan Kendrick had a meeting with the men and specifically told them not to touch Santiago. SAM So? KAFFEE I never mentioned Kendrick. I don't even know who he is. (beat) What the hell. (beat) I'll see you tomorrow. We hold for a moment on KAFFEE as he walks to his car, then CUT TO: EXT. THE AIRSTRIP AT GUANTANAMO BAY - DAY The whole place, in stark contrast to the Washington Navy Yard, is ready to go to war. Fighter jets line the tarmac. Ground crews re-fuel planes. Hurried activity. A 36 seat Airforce Jet rolls to a stop on the tarmac and a stair unit is brought up. HOWARD, a marine corporal, is waiting by the stairway as the passengers begin to got off. Mostly MARINES, a few SAILORS, a couple of CIVILIANS, and KAFFEE, JO and SAM. KAFFEE and SAM are wearing their summer whites, JO is in khakis. KAFFEE and SAM stare out at what they see: They're not in Kansas anymore. HOWARD shouts over the noise from the planes. HOWARD Lieutenants Kaffee and Weinberg? KAFFEE (shouting) Yeah. JO Commander Galloway. HOWARD I'm Corporal Howard, ma'am, I'm to escort you to the Windward side of the base. JO Thank you. HOWARD I've got some camouflage jackets in the back of the jeep, sirs, I'll have to ask you both to put them on. KAFFEE Camouflage jackets? HOWARD Regulations, sir. We'll be riding pretty close to the fenceline. The Cubans see an officer wearing white, they think it's someone they might wanna take a shot at. KAFFEE turns and glares at SAM. KAFFEE Good call, Sam. CUT TO: EXT. CUBAN ROAD - THE JEEP - DAY Tearing along down the road, and now we see a beautiful expanse of water, maybe 1000 yards across. It's a section of Guantanamo Bay. HOWARD (shouting) We'll just hop on the ferry and be over there in no time. KAFFEE (shouting) Whoa! Hold it! We gotta take a boat?! HOWARD Yes sir, to get to the other side of the bay. KAFFEE Nobody said anything about a boat. HOWARD (shouting) Is there a problem, sir? KAFFEE (shouting) No. No problem. I'm just not that crazy about boats, that's all. JO (shouting) Jesus Christ, Kaffee, you're in the Navy for cryin' out loud! KAFFEE (shouting) Nobody likes her very much. HOWARD (shouting) Yes sir. The jeep drives on and we CUT TO: JESSEP, MARKINSON and KENDRICK are standing as the LAWYERS are led in. JESSEP Nathan Jessep, come on in and siddown. KAFFEE Thank you. I'm Daniel Kaffee, I'm the attorney for Dawson and Downey. This is Joanne Galloway, she's observing and evaluating -- JO (shaking hands) Colonel. JESSEP Pleased to meet you, Commander. KAFFEE Sam Weinberg. He has no responsibility here whatsoever. JESSEP I've asked Captain Markinson and Lt. Kendrick to join us. MARKINSON Lt. Kaffee, I had the pleasure of seeing your father once. I was a teenager and he spoke at my high school. KAFFEE smiles and nods. JESSEP Lionel Kaffee? KAFFEE Yes sir. JESSEP Well what do you know. Son, this man's dad once made a lot of enemies down in your neck of the woods. Jefferson vs. Madison County School District. The folks down there said a little black girl couldn't go to an all white school, Lionel Kaffee said we'll just see about that. How the hell is your dad? KAFFEE He passed away seven years ago, colonel. JESSEP (pause) Well... don't I feel like the fuckin, asshole. KAFFEE Not at all, sir. JESSEP Well, what can we do for you, Danny. KAFFEE Not much at all, sir, I'm afraid. This is really a formality more than anything else. The JAG Corps insists that I interview all the relevant witnesses. JO The JAG Corps can be demanding that way. JESSEP smiles. JESSEP Jonanthan'll take you out and show you what you wanna see, then we can all hook up for lunch, how does that sound? KAFFEE Fine, sir. CUT TO: EXT. THE FENCELINE - DAY A SQUAD OF MARINES jogs by as a jeep carrying KENDRICK and the three LAWYERS cruises down the road. We FOLLOW the jeep. KAFFEE I understand you had a meeting with your men that afternoon. KENDRICK Yes. KAFFEE What'd you guys talk about? KENDRICK I told the men that there was an informer among us. And that despite any desire they might have to seek retribution, Private Santiago was not to be harmed in any way. KAFFEE What time was that meeting? KENDRICK Sixteen-hundred. KAFFEE turns around and looks at SAM. SAM (leaning forward) Four o'clock. CUT TO: INT. THE BARRACKS CORRIDOR - DAY KENDRICK leads the LAWYERS down the corridor to Santiago's room. Two strips of tape which warn DO NOT ENTER - AT ORDER OF THE MILITARY POLICE are crisscrossed over the closed door. They open the door and step under the tape and walk into INT. SANTIAGO'S ROOM - DAY The room is exactly an it was left that night. The un-made bed, the chair knocked over... The LAWYERS look around for a moment. The room is sparse. Kaffee goes to the closet and opens it: A row of uniforms hanging neatly. He thumbs through then for a second, but there's nothing there. He opens the footlocker: Socks, underwear... all folded to marine corp precision... A shaving kit, a couple of photographs, a pad of writing paper and some envelopes... Kaffee closes the footlocker. KAFFEE Sam, somebody should see about getting this stuff to his parents. We don't need it anymore. KENDRICK Actually, the uniforms belong to the marine corps. The LAWYERS take a moment. KAFFEE Lt. Kendrick -- can I call you Jon? KENDRICK No, you may not. KAFFEE (beat) Have I done something to offend you? KENDRICK No, I like all you Navy boys. Every time we've gotta go someplace and fight, you fellas always give us a ride. JO Lt. Kendrick, do you think Santiago was murdered? KENDRICK Commander, I believe in God, and in his son Jesus Christ, and because I do, I can say this: Private Santiago is dead and that's a tragedy. But he's dead because he had no code. He's dead because he had no honor. And God was watching. SAM turns to KAFFEE. SAM How do you feel about that theory? KAFFEE (beat) Sounds good. Let's move on. SAM and KENDRICK walk out the door. JO stops KAFFEE. JO You planning on doing any investigating or are you just gonna take the guided tour? KAFFEE (beat) I'm pacing myself. CUT TO: INT. THE OFFICERS CLUB - DAY JESSEP, MARKINSON, KENDRICK and the LAWYERS are seated at a table in the corner. Stewards clear the lunch dishes and pour coffee. Jessep is finishing a story. JESSEP ...And they spent the next three hours running around, looking for Americans to surrender to. JESSEP laughs. KENDRICK joins him. SAM and KAFFEE force a laugh. MARKINSON forces a smile. JO remains silent. JESSEP (continuing; to the STEWARDS) That was delicious, men, thank you. STEWARD Our pleasure, sir. KAFFEE Colonel just need to ask you a couple of questions about August 6th. JESSEP Shoot. KAFFEE On the morning of the sixth, you were contacted by an NIS angent who said that Santiago had tipped him off to an illegal fenceline shooting. JESSEP Yes. KAFFEE Santiago was gonna reveal the person's name in exchange for a transfer. An I getting this right? JESSEP Yes. KAFFEE If you feel there are any details that I'm missing, you should free to speak up. JESSEP's not quite sure what to say to this Navy Lawyer Lieutenant-Smartass guy who just gave him permission to speak freely on his own base. JESSEP Thank you. KAFFEE Now it was at this point that you called Captain Markinson and Lt. Kendrick into your office? JESSEP Yes. KAFFEE And what happened then? JESSEP We agreed that for his own safety, Santiago should be transferred off the base. Here's something else KAFFEE didn't know. Neither did Jo. SAM jots something down on a small notepad. MARKINSON doesn't flinch. KAFFEE Santiago was set to be transferred? JESSEP On the first available flight to the states. Six the next morning. Three hours too late as it turned out. KAFFEE nods. KAFFEE Yeah. There's silence for a moment. KAFFEE takes a sip of his coffee. Then drains the cup and puts it down. KAFFEE (continuing) Alright, that's all I have. Thanks very much for your time. KENDRICK The corporal's got the jeep outside, he'll take you back to the airstrip. KAFFEE (standing) Thank you. JO Wait a minute, I've got some questions. KAFFEE No you don't. JO Yes I do. KAFFEE No you don't. JO Colonel, on the morning that Santiago died, did you meet with Doctor Stone between three and five? KAFFEE Jo -- JESSEP Of course I met with the doctor. One of my men was dead. KAFFEE (to JO) See? The man was dead. Let's go. JO (to JESSEP) I was wondering if you've ever heard the term Code Red. KAFFEE Jo -- JESSEP I've heard the term, yes. JO Colonel, this past February, you received a cautionary memo from the Naval Investigative Service, warning that the practice of enlisted men disciplining their own wasn't to be condoned by officers. JESSEP I submit to you that whoever wrote that memo has never served on the working end of a Soviet-made Cuban Ml-Al6 Assault Rifle. However, the directive having come from the NIS, I gave it its due attention. What's your point, Jo? KAFFEE She has no point. She often has no point. It's part of her charm. We're outta here. Thank you. JO My point is that I think code reds still go on down here. Do Code Reds still happen on this base, colonel? KAFFEE Jo, the colonel doesn't need to answer that. JO Yes he does. KAFFEE No, he really doesn't. JO Yeah, he really does. Colonel? JESSEP You know it just hit me. She outranks you, Danny. KAFFEE Yes sir. JESSEP I want to tell you something Danny and listen up 'cause I mean this: You're the luckiest man in the world. There is, believe me gentlemen, nothing sexier on earth than a woman you have to salute in the morning. Promote 'em all I say. JO's not upset. JO's not mad. But she's gonna ask her question 'til she gets an answer. JO Colonel, the practice of code Reds is still condoned by officers on this base, isn't it? JESSEP You see my problem is, of course, that I'm a Colonel. I'll just have to keep taking cold showers 'til they elect some gal President. JO I need an answer to my question, sir. JESSEP Take caution in your tone, Commander. I'm a fair guy, but this fuckin' heat's making me absolutely crazy. You want to know about code reds? On the record I tell you that I discourage the practice in accordance with the NIS directive. Off the record I tell you that it's an invaluable part of close infantry training, and if it happens to go on without my knowledge, so be it. I run my base how I run my base. You want to investigate me, roll the dice and take your chances. I eat breakfast 80 yards away from 4000 Cubans who are trained to kill me. So don't for one second think you're gonna come down here, flash a badge, and make me nervous. A moment of tense silence before -- KAFFEE Let's go. Colonel, I'll just need a copy of Santiago's transfer order. JESSEP What's that? KAFFEE Santiago's transfer order. You guys have paper work on that kind of thing, I just need it for the file. JESSEP For the file. KAFFEE Yeah. JESSEP (pause) Of course you can have a copy of the transfer order. For the file. I'm here to help anyway I can. KAFFEE Thank you. JESSEP You believe that, don't you? Danny? That I'm here to help anyway I can? KAFFEE Of course. JESSEP The corporal'll run you by Ordinance on your way out to the airstrip. You can have all the transfer orders you want. KAFFEE (to JO and SAM) Let's go. The LAWYERS start to leave. JESSEP But you have to ask me nicely. KAFFEE stops. Turns around. Sam and JO stop and turn. KAFFEE I beg your pardon? JESSEP You have to ask me nicely. You see, Danny, I can deal with the bullets and the bombs and the blood. I can deal with the heat and the stress and the fear. I don't want money and I don't want medals. What I want is for you to stand there in that faggoty white uniform, and with your Harvard mouth, extend me some fuckin' courtesy. You gotta ask me nicely. KAFFEE and JESSEP are frozen. Everyone'staring at Kaffee; The OFFICERS at their tables... KENDRICK... SAM... MARKINSON... JO... KAFFEE makes his decision. KAFFEE Colonel Jessep... if it's not too much trouble, I'd like a copy of the transfer order. Sir. JESSEP smiles. JESSEP No problem. HOLD for a moment. JO's very disappointed. JESSEP stands there and watches the LAWYERS as they turn and leave the Officer's Club. JESSEP (continuing) I hate casualties, Matthew. There are casualties even in victory. A marine smothers a grenade and saves his platoon, that marine's a hero. The foundation of the unit, the fabric of this base, the spirit of the Corps, they are things worth fighting for. MARKINSON looks at the ground. JESSEP (continuing) Dawson and Downey, they don't know it, but they're smothering a grenade. MARKINSON looks up as we CUT TO: EXT. ANDREWS AIRFORCE BASE - DUSK As a plane touches down on the runway. It's dusk in Washington and CUT TO: EXT. KAFFEE'S APARTMENT - DAY A little one-bedroom. Just the essential furniture, barely even that. KAFFEE's sitting and watching a baseball came on t.v. He's holding a copy of The Baseball Encyclopedia, normally his favorite reading material, but right now he's having trouble keeping his mind in it. He's holding a baseball bat and fiddling with it. The remnants of a pizza and Yoo-Hoo dinner sit next to him. His white uniform in a pile in the corner. There's a BUZZ at the door. KAFFEE's not expecting anyone. He goes to the door. KAFFEE Who is it? JO (O.S.) It's me. KAFFEE opens the door and JO walks in. KAFFEE I've really missed you, Jo. I was just saying to myself, "It's been almost three hours since I last saw -- " JO Markinson resigned his commission. KAFFEE (pause) When? JO This afternoon. Sometime after we left. KAFFEE I'll talk to him in the morning. JO I already tried, I can't find him. KAFFEE You tried? Joanne, you're coming dangerously close to the textbook definition of interfering with a government investigation. JO hands KAFFEE the file she's been holding. JO I'm Louden Downey's attorney. KAFFEE's stunned. He opens the file and begins to read. JO (continuing) Aunt Ginny. She said she feels like she's known me for years. I suggested that she might feel more comfortable if I were directly involved with the case. She had Louden sign the papers about an hour ago. KAFFEE looks up. Still too stunned to say anything. Then finally... KAFFEE I suppose it's way too much to hope that you're just making this up to bother me. JO Don't worry, I'm not gonna make a motion for separation, you're still lead counsel. KAFFEE hands her back the file. KAFFEE Splendid. JO I think Kendrick ordered the Code Red. (beat) So do you. CUT TO: INT. A HOLDING ROOM IN THE BRIG - NIGHT DAWSON and DOWNEY come to attention as KAFFEE and JO are led in. DAWSON Officer on deck, ten hut. KAFFEE starts in immediately. KAFFEE Did Kendrick order the code red? DAWSON Sir? KAFFEE Don't say sir like I just asked you if you cleaned the latrine. You heard what I said. Did Lt. Kendrick order you guys to give Santiago a code red? DAWSON Yes sir. KAFFEE (to Downey) Did he? DOWNEY Yes sir. KAFFEE You mind telling me why the hell you never mentioned this before? DAWSON You didn't ask us, sir. KAFFEE Cutie-pie shit's not gonna win you a place in my heart, corporal, I get paid no matter how much time you spend in jail. DAWSON Yes

profession

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

was damn funny. Jo moves close to KAFFEE to say this with a degree of confidentiality. JO I do know you. Daniel AlliStair Kaffee, born June 8th, 1964 at Boston Mercy Hospital. Your father's Lionel Kaffee, former Navy Judge Advocate and Attorney General, of the United States, died 1985. You went to Harvard Law on a Navy scholarship, probably because that's what your father wanted you to do, and now you're just treading water for the three years you've gotta serve in the JAG Corps, just kinda layin' low til you can get out and get a real job. And if that's the situation, that's fine, I won't tell anyone. But my feeling is that if this case is handled in the same fast-food, slick-ass, Persian Bazaar manner with which you seem to handle everything else, something's gonna get missed. And I wouldn't be doing my job if I allowed Dawson and Downey to spend any more time in prison than absolutely necessary, because their attorney had pre- determined the path of least resistance. KAFFEE can't help but be impressed by that speech. KAFFEE Wow. (beat) I'm sexually aroused, Commander. JO I don't think your clients murdered anybody. KAFFEE What are you basing this on? JO There was no intent. KAFFEE The doctor's report says that Santiago died of asphyxiation brought on by acute lactic acidosis, and that the nature of the acidosis strongly suggests poisoning. (beat) Now, I don't know what any of that means, but it sounds pretty bad. JO Santiago died at one a.m. At three the doctor was unable to determine the cause of death, but two hours later he said it was poison. KAFFEE Oh, now I see what you're saying. It had to be Professor Plum in the library with the candlestick. JO I'm gonna speak to your supervisor. KAFFEE Okay. You go straight up Pennsylvania Avenue. It's a big white house with pillars in front. JO Thank you. KAFFEE I don't think you'll have much luck, though. I was assigned by Division, remember? Somebody over there thinks I'm a good lawyer. So while I appreciate your interest and admire your enthusiasm, I think I can pretty much handle things myself. JO Do you know what a code red is? KAFFEE doesn't, but he doesn't say anything. JO (continuing) What a pity. CUT TO: INT. THE BRIG - DAY And an M.P. is leading KAFFEE and SAM down to DAWSON and DOWNEY's cell. M.P. Officer on deck, ten-hut. DAWSON and DOWNEY come to attention. Through the following, the M.P. will unlock the call door and let the lawyers in. DAWSON Sir, Lance Corporal Harold W. Dawson, sir. Rifle Security Company Windward, Second Platoon, Delta. KAFFEE Someone hasn't been working and playing well with others, Harold. DAWSON Sir, yes sir! DOWNEY Sir, PFC Louden Downey. KAFFEE I'm Daniel Kaffee, this is Sam Weinerg, you can sitdown. DAWSON and DOWNEY aren't too comfortable sitting in the presence of officers, but they do as they're told. KAFFEE's pulled out some documents, SAM's sitting on one of the cots taking notes. KAFFEE (continuing; to DAWSON) Is this your signature? DAWSON Yes sir. KAFFEE You don't have to call me sir. (to DOWNEY) Is this your signature? DOWNEY Sir, yes sir. KAFFEE And you certainly don't have to do it twice in one sentence. Harold, what's a Code Red? DAWSON Sir, a Code Red is a disciplinary engagement. KAFFEE What does that mean, exactly? DAWSON Sir, a marine falls out of line, it's up to the men in his unit to get him back on track. KAFFEE What's a garden variety Code Red? DAWSON Sir? KAFFEE Harold, you say sir and I turn around and look for my father. Danny, Daniel, Kaffee. Garden variety; typical. What's a basic Code Red? DAWSON Sir, a marine has refused to bathe on a regular basis. The men in his squad would give him a G.I. shower. KAFFEE What's that? DAWSON Scrub brushes, brillo pads, steel wool... SAM Beautiful. KAFFEE Was the attack on Santiago a Code Red? DAWSON Yes sir. KAFFEE (to DOWNEY) Do you ever talk? DAWSON Sir, Private Downey will answer any direct questions you ask him. KAFFEE Swell. Private Downey, the rag you stuffed in Santiago's mouth, was there poison on it? DOWNEY No sir. KAFFEE Silver polish, turpentine, anti- freeze... DOWNEY No sir. We were gonna shave his head, sir. KAFFEE When all of a sudden...? DOWNEY We saw blood drippinq out of his mouth. Then we pulled the tape off, and there was blood all down his face, sir. That's when Corporal Dawson called the ambulance. KAFFEE tries not to make too big a deal out of this last piece of news. KAFFEE (to DAWSON) Did anyone see you call the ambulance? DAWSON No sir. KAFFEE Were you there when the ambulance got there? DAWSON Yes sir, that's when we were taken under arrest. KAFFEE kinda strolls to the corner of the cell to think for a moment. SAM (to DAWSON) On the night of August 2nd, did you fire a shot across the fenceline into Cuba? DAWSON Yes sir. SAM Why? DAWSON My mirror engaged, sir. KAFFEE (to SAM) His mirror engaged? SAM For each American sentry post there's a Cuban counterpart. They're called mirrors. The corporal's claiming that his mirror was about to fire at him. KAFFEE Santiago's letter to the NIS said you fired illegally. He's saying that the guy, the mirror, he never made a move. DAWSON says nothing. KAFFEE (continuing) Oh, Harold? SAM is staring at DAWSON. KAFFEE (continuing) You see what I'm getting at? If Santiago didn't have anything on you, then why did you give him a Code Red? DAWSON Because he broke the chain of command, sir. KAFFEE He what? DAWSON He went outside his unit, sir. If he had a problem, he should've spoken to me, sir. Then his Sergeant, then Company Commander, then -- KAFFEE Yeah, yeah, alright. Harold, did you assault Santiago with the intent of killing him? DAWSON No sir. KAFFEE What was your intent? DAWSON To train him, sir. KAFFEE Train him to do what? DAWSON Train him to think of his unit before himself. To respect the code. SAM What's the code? DAWSON Unit Corps God Country. SAM I beg your pardon? DAWSON Unit Corps God Country, sir. KAFFEE The Goverrment of the United States wants to charge you two with murder. You want me to go to the prosecutor with unit, corps, god, country? DAWSON stares at KAFFEE. DAWSON That's our code, sir. KAFFEE takes a long moment. He picks up his briefcase and he and SAM move to the door. KAFFEE We'll be back. You guys need anything? Books paper, cigarettes, a ham sandwich? DAWSON Sir. No thank you. Sir. KAFFEE smiles at DAWSON. KAFFEE Harold, I think there's a concept you better start warming up to. DAWSON Sir? KAFFEE I'm the only friend you've got. And as KAFFEE and SAM walk out the open cell door, DAWSON and DOWNEY come to attention and snap a salute. They hold the salute until KAFFEE and SAM are well out of sight, and we CUT TO: INT. KAFFEE'S OFFICE - DAY He's packing up stuff into his briefcase at the end of the work day. Lt. JACK ROSS, a marine lawyer maybe two years older than Kaffee, opens the door and walks in.. ROSS Dan Kaffee. KAFFEE Sailin' Jack Ross. ROSS Welcome to the big time. KAFFEE You think so? ROSS I hope for Dawson and Downey's sake you practice law better than you play softball. KAFFEE Unfortunately for Dawson and Downey, I don't do anything better than I play softball. What are we lookin' at? ROSS They plead guilty to manslaughter, I'll drop the conspiracy and the conduct unbecoming. 20 years, they'll be home in half that time. KAFFEE I want twelve. ROSS Can't do it. KAFFEE They called the ambulance, Jack. ROSS I don't care if they called the Avon Lady, they killed a marine. KAFFEE The rag was tested for poison. The autopsy, lab report, even the initial E.R. and C.O.D. reports. They all say the same thing: Maybe, maybe not. ROSS The Chief of Internal Medicine at the Guantanamo Bay Naval hospital says he's sure. KAFFEE What do you know about Code Reds? ROSS smiles and shakes his head. ROSS Oh man. He closes the office door. ROSS (continuing) Are we off the record? KAFFEE You tell me. ROSS (pause) I'm gonna give you the twelve years, but before you go getting yourself into trouble tomorrow, you should know this: The platoon commander Lt. Jonathan Kendrick, had a meeting with the men. And he specifically told them not to touch Santiago. KAFFEE holds for a moment. Dawson and Downey neglected to mention this... He packs up his briefcase and cleats. KAFFEE I'll talk to you when I get back. ROSS Hey, we got a little four-on-four going tomorrow night. When does your plane get in? CUT TO: EXT. THE PARKING LOT - DUSK It's dusk and people on the base are going home from work. We can see the flag being lowered in the background. KAFFEE's walking toward his car. JO intercepts him and starts walking along with him. JO Hi there. KAFFEE Any luck getting me replaced? JO Is there anyone in this command that you don't either drink or play softball with? KAFFEE Commander -- JO Listen, I came to make peace. We started off on the wrong foot. What do you say? Friends? KAFFEE Look, I don't -- JO By the way, I brought Downey some comic books he was asking for. The kid, Kaffee, I swear, he doesn't know where he is, he doesn't even know why he's been arrested. KAFFEE Commander -- JO You can call me Joanne. KAFFEE Joanne -- JO or Jo. KAFFEE Jo? JO Yes. KAFFEE Jo, if you ever speak to a client of mine again without my permission, I'll have you disbarred. Friends? JO I had authorization. KAFFEE From where? JO Downey's closest living relative, Ginny Miller, his aunt on his mother's side. KAFFEE You got authorization from Aunt Ginny? JO I gave her a call like you asked. Very nice woman, we talked for about an hour. KAFFEE You got authorization from Aunt Ginny. JO Perfectly within my province. KAFFEE Does Aunt Ginny have a barn? We can hold the trial there. I can sew the costumes, and maybe his Uncle Goober can be the judge. Jo steps aside and lets KAFFEE got into his car. JO I'm going to Cuba with you tomorrow. KAFFEE And the hits just keep on comin'. HOLD on KAFFEE and Jo. JO smiles. CUT TO: EXT. SIDEWALK NEWSSTAND - DUSK KAFFEE IN HIS CAR He's driving down a Washington street and pulls over at a sidewalk newsstand. He gets out of his car, leaving the lights flashing, and runs up to the newsstand. As he plunks his 35 cents down and picks up a newspaper, he engages in his daily ritual with LUTHER, the newsstand operator. KAFFEE How's it goin', Luther? LUTHER Another day, another dollar, captain. KAFFEE You gotta play 'em as they lay, Luther. LUTHER What comes around, goes around, you know what I'm sayin'. KAFFEE If you can't beat 'em, join 'em. LUTHER Hey, if you've got your health, you got everything. KAFFEE Love makes the world go round. I'll see you tomorrow, Luther. And we CUT TO: INT. SAM'S LIVING ROOM - NIGHT A baby sleeping in a crib pull rack to reveal SAM is standing over the crib. KAFFEE's sitting on a beer. SAM When Nancy gets back, you're my witness. The baby spoke. My daughter said a word. KAFFEE Your daughter made a sound, Sam, I'm not sure it was a word. SAM Oh come on, it was a word. KAFFEE Okay. SAM You heard her. The girl sat here, pointed, and said "Pa". She did. She said "Pa". KAFFEE She was pointing at a doorknob. SAM That's right. Pointing, as if to say, "Pa, look, a doorknob". SAM joins KAFFEE in the living room. KAFFEE Jack Ross came to see me today. He offered me twelve years. SAM That's what you wanted. KAFFEE I know, and I'll... I guess, I mean -- (beat) I'll take it. SAM So? KAFFEE It took albout 45 seconds. He barely put up a fight. SAM (beat) Danny, take the twelve years, it's a gift. KAFFEE finishes off his beer, and stands. KAFFEE You don't believe their story, do you? You think they ought to go to jail for the rest of their lives. SAM I believe every word they said. And I think they ought to go to jail for the rest of their lives. KAFFEE nods and puts down the empty beer bottle. KAFFEE I'll see you tomorrow. Sam opens the front door for him and they stand out on the stoop for a moment. SAM Remember to wear your whites, it's hot down there. KAFFEE I don't like the whites. SAM Nobody likes the whites, but we're going to Cuba in August. You got Dramamine? KAFFEE Dramamine keeps you cool? SAM Dramamine keeps you from throwing up, you get sick when you fly. KAFFEE I get sick when I fly because I'm afraid of crashing into a large mountain, I don't think Dramamine'll help. SAM I've got some oregano, I hear that works pretty good. KAFFEE Yeah, right. KAFFEE starts toward his car, then turns around. KAFFEE (continuing) You know, Ross said the strangest thing to me right before I left. He said the platoon commander Lieutenant Jonathan Kendrick had a meeting with the men and specifically told them not to touch Santiago. SAM So? KAFFEE I never mentioned Kendrick. I don't even know who he is. (beat) What the hell. (beat) I'll see you tomorrow. We hold for a moment on KAFFEE as he walks to his car, then CUT TO: EXT. THE AIRSTRIP AT GUANTANAMO BAY - DAY The whole place, in stark contrast to the Washington Navy Yard, is ready to go to war. Fighter jets line the tarmac. Ground crews re-fuel planes. Hurried activity. A 36 seat Airforce Jet rolls to a stop on the tarmac and a stair unit is brought up. HOWARD, a marine corporal, is waiting by the stairway as the passengers begin to got off. Mostly MARINES, a few SAILORS, a couple of CIVILIANS, and KAFFEE, JO and SAM. KAFFEE and SAM are wearing their summer whites, JO is in khakis. KAFFEE and SAM stare out at what they see: They're not in Kansas anymore. HOWARD shouts over the noise from the planes. HOWARD Lieutenants Kaffee and Weinberg? KAFFEE (shouting) Yeah. JO Commander Galloway. HOWARD I'm Corporal Howard, ma'am, I'm to escort you to the Windward side of the base. JO Thank you. HOWARD I've got some camouflage jackets in the back of the jeep, sirs, I'll have to ask you both to put them on. KAFFEE Camouflage jackets? HOWARD Regulations, sir. We'll be riding pretty close to the fenceline. The Cubans see an officer wearing white, they think it's someone they might wanna take a shot at. KAFFEE turns and glares at SAM. KAFFEE Good call, Sam. CUT TO: EXT. CUBAN ROAD - THE JEEP - DAY Tearing along down the road, and now we see a beautiful expanse of water, maybe 1000 yards across. It's a section of Guantanamo Bay. HOWARD (shouting) We'll just hop on the ferry and be over there in no time. KAFFEE (shouting) Whoa! Hold it! We gotta take a boat?! HOWARD Yes sir, to get to the other side of the bay. KAFFEE Nobody said anything about a boat. HOWARD (shouting) Is there a problem, sir? KAFFEE (shouting) No. No problem. I'm just not that crazy about boats, that's all. JO (shouting) Jesus Christ, Kaffee, you're in the Navy for cryin' out loud! KAFFEE (shouting) Nobody likes her very much. HOWARD (shouting) Yes sir. The jeep drives on and we CUT TO: JESSEP, MARKINSON and KENDRICK are standing as the LAWYERS are led in. JESSEP Nathan Jessep, come on in and siddown. KAFFEE Thank you. I'm Daniel Kaffee, I'm the attorney for Dawson and Downey. This is Joanne Galloway, she's observing and evaluating -- JO (shaking hands) Colonel. JESSEP Pleased to meet you, Commander. KAFFEE Sam Weinberg. He has no responsibility here whatsoever. JESSEP I've asked Captain Markinson and Lt. Kendrick to join us. MARKINSON Lt. Kaffee, I had the pleasure of seeing your father once. I was a teenager and he spoke at my high school. KAFFEE smiles and nods. JESSEP Lionel Kaffee? KAFFEE Yes sir. JESSEP Well what do you know. Son, this man's dad once made a lot of enemies down in your neck of the woods. Jefferson vs. Madison County School District. The folks down there said a little black girl couldn't go to an all white school, Lionel Kaffee said we'll just see about that. How the hell is your dad? KAFFEE He passed away seven years ago, colonel. JESSEP (pause) Well... don't I feel like the fuckin, asshole. KAFFEE Not at all, sir. JESSEP Well, what can we do for you, Danny. KAFFEE Not much at all, sir, I'm afraid. This is really a formality more than anything else. The JAG Corps insists that I interview all the relevant witnesses. JO The JAG Corps can be demanding that way. JESSEP smiles. JESSEP Jonanthan'll take you out and show you what you wanna see, then we can all hook up for lunch, how does that sound? KAFFEE Fine, sir. CUT TO: EXT. THE FENCELINE - DAY A SQUAD OF MARINES jogs by as a jeep carrying KENDRICK and the three LAWYERS cruises down the road. We FOLLOW the jeep. KAFFEE I understand you had a meeting with your men that afternoon. KENDRICK Yes. KAFFEE What'd you guys talk about? KENDRICK I told the men that there was an informer among us. And that despite any desire they might have to seek retribution, Private Santiago was not to be harmed in any way. KAFFEE What time was that meeting? KENDRICK Sixteen-hundred. KAFFEE turns around and looks at SAM. SAM (leaning forward) Four o'clock. CUT TO: INT. THE BARRACKS CORRIDOR - DAY KENDRICK leads the LAWYERS down the corridor to Santiago's room. Two strips of tape which warn DO NOT ENTER - AT ORDER OF THE MILITARY POLICE are crisscrossed over the closed door. They open the door and step under the tape and walk into INT. SANTIAGO'S ROOM - DAY The room is exactly an it was left that night. The un-made bed, the chair knocked over... The LAWYERS look around for a moment. The room is sparse. Kaffee goes to the closet and opens it: A row of uniforms hanging neatly. He thumbs through then for a second, but there's nothing there. He opens the footlocker: Socks, underwear... all folded to marine corp precision... A shaving kit, a couple of photographs, a pad of writing paper and some envelopes... Kaffee closes the footlocker. KAFFEE Sam, somebody should see about getting this stuff to his parents. We don't need it anymore. KENDRICK Actually, the uniforms belong to the marine corps. The LAWYERS take a moment. KAFFEE Lt. Kendrick -- can I call you Jon? KENDRICK No, you may not. KAFFEE (beat) Have I done something to offend you? KENDRICK No, I like all you Navy boys. Every time we've gotta go someplace and fight, you fellas always give us a ride. JO Lt. Kendrick, do you think Santiago was murdered? KENDRICK Commander, I believe in God, and in his son Jesus Christ, and because I do, I can say this: Private Santiago is dead and that's a tragedy. But he's dead because he had no code. He's dead because he had no honor. And God was watching. SAM turns to KAFFEE. SAM How do you feel about that theory? KAFFEE (beat) Sounds good. Let's move on. SAM and KENDRICK walk out the door. JO stops KAFFEE. JO You planning on doing any investigating or are you just gonna take the guided tour? KAFFEE (beat) I'm pacing myself. CUT TO: INT. THE OFFICERS CLUB - DAY JESSEP, MARKINSON, KENDRICK and the LAWYERS are seated at a table in the corner. Stewards clear the lunch dishes and pour coffee. Jessep is finishing a story. JESSEP ...And they spent the next three hours running around, looking for Americans to surrender to. JESSEP laughs. KENDRICK joins him. SAM and KAFFEE force a laugh. MARKINSON forces a smile. JO remains silent. JESSEP (continuing; to the STEWARDS) That was delicious, men, thank you. STEWARD Our pleasure, sir. KAFFEE Colonel just need to ask you a couple of questions about August 6th. JESSEP Shoot. KAFFEE On the morning of the sixth, you were contacted by an NIS angent who said that Santiago had tipped him off to an illegal fenceline shooting. JESSEP Yes. KAFFEE Santiago was gonna reveal the person's name in exchange for a transfer. An I getting this right? JESSEP Yes. KAFFEE If you feel there are any details that I'm missing, you should free to speak up. JESSEP's not quite sure what to say to this Navy Lawyer Lieutenant-Smartass guy who just gave him permission to speak freely on his own base. JESSEP Thank you. KAFFEE Now it was at this point that you called Captain Markinson and Lt. Kendrick into your office? JESSEP Yes. KAFFEE And what happened then? JESSEP We agreed that for his own safety, Santiago should be transferred off the base. Here's something else KAFFEE didn't know. Neither did Jo. SAM jots something down on a small notepad. MARKINSON doesn't flinch. KAFFEE Santiago was set to be transferred? JESSEP On the first available flight to the states. Six the next morning. Three hours too late as it turned out. KAFFEE nods. KAFFEE Yeah. There's silence for a moment. KAFFEE takes a sip of his coffee. Then drains the cup and puts it down. KAFFEE (continuing) Alright, that's all I have. Thanks very much for your time. KENDRICK The corporal's got the jeep outside, he'll take you back to the airstrip. KAFFEE (standing) Thank you. JO Wait a minute, I've got some questions. KAFFEE No you don't. JO Yes I do. KAFFEE No you don't. JO Colonel, on the morning that Santiago died, did you meet with Doctor Stone between three and five? KAFFEE Jo -- JESSEP Of course I met with the doctor. One of my men was dead. KAFFEE (to JO) See? The man was dead. Let's go. JO (to JESSEP) I was wondering if you've ever heard the term Code Red. KAFFEE Jo -- JESSEP I've heard the term, yes. JO Colonel, this past February, you received a cautionary memo from the Naval Investigative Service, warning that the practice of enlisted men disciplining their own wasn't to be condoned by officers. JESSEP I submit to you that whoever wrote that memo has never served on the working end of a Soviet-made Cuban Ml-Al6 Assault Rifle. However, the directive having come from the NIS, I gave it its due attention. What's your point, Jo? KAFFEE She has no point. She often has no point. It's part of her charm. We're outta here. Thank you. JO My point is that I think code reds still go on down here. Do Code Reds still happen on this base, colonel? KAFFEE Jo, the colonel doesn't need to answer that. JO Yes he does. KAFFEE No, he really doesn't. JO Yeah, he really does. Colonel? JESSEP You know it just hit me. She outranks you, Danny. KAFFEE Yes sir. JESSEP I want to tell you something Danny and listen up 'cause I mean this: You're the luckiest man in the world. There is, believe me gentlemen, nothing sexier on earth than a woman you have to salute in the morning. Promote 'em all I say. JO's not upset. JO's not mad. But she's gonna ask her question 'til she gets an answer. JO Colonel, the practice of code Reds is still condoned by officers on this base, isn't it? JESSEP You see my problem is, of course, that I'm a Colonel. I'll just have to keep taking cold showers 'til they elect some gal President. JO I need an answer to my question, sir. JESSEP Take caution in your tone, Commander. I'm a fair guy, but this fuckin' heat's making me absolutely crazy. You want to know about code reds? On the record I tell you that I discourage the practice in accordance with the NIS directive. Off the record I tell you that it's an invaluable part of close infantry training, and if it happens to go on without my knowledge, so be it. I run my base how I run my base. You want to investigate me, roll the dice and take your chances. I eat breakfast 80 yards away from 4000 Cubans who are trained to kill me. So don't for one second think you're gonna come down here, flash a badge, and make me nervous. A moment of tense silence before -- KAFFEE Let's go. Colonel, I'll just need a copy of Santiago's transfer order. JESSEP What's that? KAFFEE Santiago's transfer order. You guys have paper work on that kind of thing, I just need it for the file. JESSEP For the file. KAFFEE Yeah. JESSEP (pause) Of course you can have a copy of the transfer order. For the file. I'm here to help anyway I can. KAFFEE Thank you. JESSEP You believe that, don't you? Danny? That I'm here to help anyway I can? KAFFEE Of course. JESSEP The corporal'll run you by Ordinance on your way out to the airstrip. You can have all the transfer orders you want. KAFFEE (to JO and SAM) Let's go. The LAWYERS start to leave. JESSEP But you have to ask me nicely. KAFFEE stops. Turns around. Sam and JO stop and turn. KAFFEE I beg your pardon? JESSEP You have to ask me nicely. You see, Danny, I can deal with the bullets and the bombs and the blood. I can deal with the heat and the stress and the fear. I don't want money and I don't want medals. What I want is for you to stand there in that faggoty white uniform, and with your Harvard mouth, extend me some fuckin' courtesy. You gotta ask me nicely. KAFFEE and JESSEP are frozen. Everyone'staring at Kaffee; The OFFICERS at their tables... KENDRICK... SAM... MARKINSON... JO... KAFFEE makes his decision. KAFFEE Colonel Jessep... if it's not too much trouble, I'd like a copy of the transfer order. Sir. JESSEP smiles. JESSEP No problem. HOLD for a moment. JO's very disappointed. JESSEP stands there and watches the LAWYERS as they turn and leave the Officer's Club. JESSEP (continuing) I hate casualties, Matthew. There are casualties even in victory. A marine smothers a grenade and saves his platoon, that marine's a hero. The foundation of the unit, the fabric of this base, the spirit of the Corps, they are things worth fighting for. MARKINSON looks at the ground. JESSEP (continuing) Dawson and Downey, they don't know it, but they're smothering a grenade. MARKINSON looks up as we CUT TO: EXT. ANDREWS AIRFORCE BASE - DUSK As a plane touches down on the runway. It's dusk in Washington and CUT TO: EXT. KAFFEE'S APARTMENT - DAY A little one-bedroom. Just the essential furniture, barely even that. KAFFEE's sitting and watching a baseball came on t.v. He's holding a copy of The Baseball Encyclopedia, normally his favorite reading material, but right now he's having trouble keeping his mind in it. He's holding a baseball bat and fiddling with it. The remnants of a pizza and Yoo-Hoo dinner sit next to him. His white uniform in a pile in the corner. There's a BUZZ at the door. KAFFEE's not expecting anyone. He goes to the door. KAFFEE Who is it? JO (O.S.) It's me. KAFFEE opens the door and JO walks in. KAFFEE I've really missed you, Jo. I was just saying to myself, "It's been almost three hours since I last saw -- " JO Markinson resigned his commission. KAFFEE (pause) When? JO This afternoon. Sometime after we left. KAFFEE I'll talk to him in the morning. JO I already tried, I can't find him. KAFFEE You tried? Joanne, you're coming dangerously close to the textbook definition of interfering with a government investigation. JO hands KAFFEE the file she's been holding. JO I'm Louden Downey's attorney. KAFFEE's stunned. He opens the file and begins to read. JO (continuing) Aunt Ginny. She said she feels like she's known me for years. I suggested that she might feel more comfortable if I were directly involved with the case. She had Louden sign the papers about an hour ago. KAFFEE looks up. Still too stunned to say anything. Then finally... KAFFEE I suppose it's way too much to hope that you're just making this up to bother me. JO Don't worry, I'm not gonna make a motion for separation, you're still lead counsel. KAFFEE hands her back the file. KAFFEE Splendid. JO I think Kendrick ordered the Code Red. (beat) So do you. CUT TO: INT. A HOLDING ROOM IN THE BRIG - NIGHT DAWSON and DOWNEY come to attention as KAFFEE and JO are led in. DAWSON Officer on deck, ten hut. KAFFEE starts in immediately. KAFFEE Did Kendrick order the code red? DAWSON Sir? KAFFEE Don't say sir like I just asked you if you cleaned the latrine. You heard what I said. Did Lt. Kendrick order you guys to give Santiago a code red? DAWSON Yes sir. KAFFEE (to Downey) Did he? DOWNEY Yes sir. KAFFEE You mind telling me why the hell you never mentioned this before? DAWSON You didn't ask us, sir. KAFFEE Cutie-pie shit's not gonna win you a place in my heart, corporal, I get paid no matter how much time you spend in jail. DAWSON Yes

spoke

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

was damn funny. Jo moves close to KAFFEE to say this with a degree of confidentiality. JO I do know you. Daniel AlliStair Kaffee, born June 8th, 1964 at Boston Mercy Hospital. Your father's Lionel Kaffee, former Navy Judge Advocate and Attorney General, of the United States, died 1985. You went to Harvard Law on a Navy scholarship, probably because that's what your father wanted you to do, and now you're just treading water for the three years you've gotta serve in the JAG Corps, just kinda layin' low til you can get out and get a real job. And if that's the situation, that's fine, I won't tell anyone. But my feeling is that if this case is handled in the same fast-food, slick-ass, Persian Bazaar manner with which you seem to handle everything else, something's gonna get missed. And I wouldn't be doing my job if I allowed Dawson and Downey to spend any more time in prison than absolutely necessary, because their attorney had pre- determined the path of least resistance. KAFFEE can't help but be impressed by that speech. KAFFEE Wow. (beat) I'm sexually aroused, Commander. JO I don't think your clients murdered anybody. KAFFEE What are you basing this on? JO There was no intent. KAFFEE The doctor's report says that Santiago died of asphyxiation brought on by acute lactic acidosis, and that the nature of the acidosis strongly suggests poisoning. (beat) Now, I don't know what any of that means, but it sounds pretty bad. JO Santiago died at one a.m. At three the doctor was unable to determine the cause of death, but two hours later he said it was poison. KAFFEE Oh, now I see what you're saying. It had to be Professor Plum in the library with the candlestick. JO I'm gonna speak to your supervisor. KAFFEE Okay. You go straight up Pennsylvania Avenue. It's a big white house with pillars in front. JO Thank you. KAFFEE I don't think you'll have much luck, though. I was assigned by Division, remember? Somebody over there thinks I'm a good lawyer. So while I appreciate your interest and admire your enthusiasm, I think I can pretty much handle things myself. JO Do you know what a code red is? KAFFEE doesn't, but he doesn't say anything. JO (continuing) What a pity. CUT TO: INT. THE BRIG - DAY And an M.P. is leading KAFFEE and SAM down to DAWSON and DOWNEY's cell. M.P. Officer on deck, ten-hut. DAWSON and DOWNEY come to attention. Through the following, the M.P. will unlock the call door and let the lawyers in. DAWSON Sir, Lance Corporal Harold W. Dawson, sir. Rifle Security Company Windward, Second Platoon, Delta. KAFFEE Someone hasn't been working and playing well with others, Harold. DAWSON Sir, yes sir! DOWNEY Sir, PFC Louden Downey. KAFFEE I'm Daniel Kaffee, this is Sam Weinerg, you can sitdown. DAWSON and DOWNEY aren't too comfortable sitting in the presence of officers, but they do as they're told. KAFFEE's pulled out some documents, SAM's sitting on one of the cots taking notes. KAFFEE (continuing; to DAWSON) Is this your signature? DAWSON Yes sir. KAFFEE You don't have to call me sir. (to DOWNEY) Is this your signature? DOWNEY Sir, yes sir. KAFFEE And you certainly don't have to do it twice in one sentence. Harold, what's a Code Red? DAWSON Sir, a Code Red is a disciplinary engagement. KAFFEE What does that mean, exactly? DAWSON Sir, a marine falls out of line, it's up to the men in his unit to get him back on track. KAFFEE What's a garden variety Code Red? DAWSON Sir? KAFFEE Harold, you say sir and I turn around and look for my father. Danny, Daniel, Kaffee. Garden variety; typical. What's a basic Code Red? DAWSON Sir, a marine has refused to bathe on a regular basis. The men in his squad would give him a G.I. shower. KAFFEE What's that? DAWSON Scrub brushes, brillo pads, steel wool... SAM Beautiful. KAFFEE Was the attack on Santiago a Code Red? DAWSON Yes sir. KAFFEE (to DOWNEY) Do you ever talk? DAWSON Sir, Private Downey will answer any direct questions you ask him. KAFFEE Swell. Private Downey, the rag you stuffed in Santiago's mouth, was there poison on it? DOWNEY No sir. KAFFEE Silver polish, turpentine, anti- freeze... DOWNEY No sir. We were gonna shave his head, sir. KAFFEE When all of a sudden...? DOWNEY We saw blood drippinq out of his mouth. Then we pulled the tape off, and there was blood all down his face, sir. That's when Corporal Dawson called the ambulance. KAFFEE tries not to make too big a deal out of this last piece of news. KAFFEE (to DAWSON) Did anyone see you call the ambulance? DAWSON No sir. KAFFEE Were you there when the ambulance got there? DAWSON Yes sir, that's when we were taken under arrest. KAFFEE kinda strolls to the corner of the cell to think for a moment. SAM (to DAWSON) On the night of August 2nd, did you fire a shot across the fenceline into Cuba? DAWSON Yes sir. SAM Why? DAWSON My mirror engaged, sir. KAFFEE (to SAM) His mirror engaged? SAM For each American sentry post there's a Cuban counterpart. They're called mirrors. The corporal's claiming that his mirror was about to fire at him. KAFFEE Santiago's letter to the NIS said you fired illegally. He's saying that the guy, the mirror, he never made a move. DAWSON says nothing. KAFFEE (continuing) Oh, Harold? SAM is staring at DAWSON. KAFFEE (continuing) You see what I'm getting at? If Santiago didn't have anything on you, then why did you give him a Code Red? DAWSON Because he broke the chain of command, sir. KAFFEE He what? DAWSON He went outside his unit, sir. If he had a problem, he should've spoken to me, sir. Then his Sergeant, then Company Commander, then -- KAFFEE Yeah, yeah, alright. Harold, did you assault Santiago with the intent of killing him? DAWSON No sir. KAFFEE What was your intent? DAWSON To train him, sir. KAFFEE Train him to do what? DAWSON Train him to think of his unit before himself. To respect the code. SAM What's the code? DAWSON Unit Corps God Country. SAM I beg your pardon? DAWSON Unit Corps God Country, sir. KAFFEE The Goverrment of the United States wants to charge you two with murder. You want me to go to the prosecutor with unit, corps, god, country? DAWSON stares at KAFFEE. DAWSON That's our code, sir. KAFFEE takes a long moment. He picks up his briefcase and he and SAM move to the door. KAFFEE We'll be back. You guys need anything? Books paper, cigarettes, a ham sandwich? DAWSON Sir. No thank you. Sir. KAFFEE smiles at DAWSON. KAFFEE Harold, I think there's a concept you better start warming up to. DAWSON Sir? KAFFEE I'm the only friend you've got. And as KAFFEE and SAM walk out the open cell door, DAWSON and DOWNEY come to attention and snap a salute. They hold the salute until KAFFEE and SAM are well out of sight, and we CUT TO: INT. KAFFEE'S OFFICE - DAY He's packing up stuff into his briefcase at the end of the work day. Lt. JACK ROSS, a marine lawyer maybe two years older than Kaffee, opens the door and walks in.. ROSS Dan Kaffee. KAFFEE Sailin' Jack Ross. ROSS Welcome to the big time. KAFFEE You think so? ROSS I hope for Dawson and Downey's sake you practice law better than you play softball. KAFFEE Unfortunately for Dawson and Downey, I don't do anything better than I play softball. What are we lookin' at? ROSS They plead guilty to manslaughter, I'll drop the conspiracy and the conduct unbecoming. 20 years, they'll be home in half that time. KAFFEE I want twelve. ROSS Can't do it. KAFFEE They called the ambulance, Jack. ROSS I don't care if they called the Avon Lady, they killed a marine. KAFFEE The rag was tested for poison. The autopsy, lab report, even the initial E.R. and C.O.D. reports. They all say the same thing: Maybe, maybe not. ROSS The Chief of Internal Medicine at the Guantanamo Bay Naval hospital says he's sure. KAFFEE What do you know about Code Reds? ROSS smiles and shakes his head. ROSS Oh man. He closes the office door. ROSS (continuing) Are we off the record? KAFFEE You tell me. ROSS (pause) I'm gonna give you the twelve years, but before you go getting yourself into trouble tomorrow, you should know this: The platoon commander Lt. Jonathan Kendrick, had a meeting with the men. And he specifically told them not to touch Santiago. KAFFEE holds for a moment. Dawson and Downey neglected to mention this... He packs up his briefcase and cleats. KAFFEE I'll talk to you when I get back. ROSS Hey, we got a little four-on-four going tomorrow night. When does your plane get in? CUT TO: EXT. THE PARKING LOT - DUSK It's dusk and people on the base are going home from work. We can see the flag being lowered in the background. KAFFEE's walking toward his car. JO intercepts him and starts walking along with him. JO Hi there. KAFFEE Any luck getting me replaced? JO Is there anyone in this command that you don't either drink or play softball with? KAFFEE Commander -- JO Listen, I came to make peace. We started off on the wrong foot. What do you say? Friends? KAFFEE Look, I don't -- JO By the way, I brought Downey some comic books he was asking for. The kid, Kaffee, I swear, he doesn't know where he is, he doesn't even know why he's been arrested. KAFFEE Commander -- JO You can call me Joanne. KAFFEE Joanne -- JO or Jo. KAFFEE Jo? JO Yes. KAFFEE Jo, if you ever speak to a client of mine again without my permission, I'll have you disbarred. Friends? JO I had authorization. KAFFEE From where? JO Downey's closest living relative, Ginny Miller, his aunt on his mother's side. KAFFEE You got authorization from Aunt Ginny? JO I gave her a call like you asked. Very nice woman, we talked for about an hour. KAFFEE You got authorization from Aunt Ginny. JO Perfectly within my province. KAFFEE Does Aunt Ginny have a barn? We can hold the trial there. I can sew the costumes, and maybe his Uncle Goober can be the judge. Jo steps aside and lets KAFFEE got into his car. JO I'm going to Cuba with you tomorrow. KAFFEE And the hits just keep on comin'. HOLD on KAFFEE and Jo. JO smiles. CUT TO: EXT. SIDEWALK NEWSSTAND - DUSK KAFFEE IN HIS CAR He's driving down a Washington street and pulls over at a sidewalk newsstand. He gets out of his car, leaving the lights flashing, and runs up to the newsstand. As he plunks his 35 cents down and picks up a newspaper, he engages in his daily ritual with LUTHER, the newsstand operator. KAFFEE How's it goin', Luther? LUTHER Another day, another dollar, captain. KAFFEE You gotta play 'em as they lay, Luther. LUTHER What comes around, goes around, you know what I'm sayin'. KAFFEE If you can't beat 'em, join 'em. LUTHER Hey, if you've got your health, you got everything. KAFFEE Love makes the world go round. I'll see you tomorrow, Luther. And we CUT TO: INT. SAM'S LIVING ROOM - NIGHT A baby sleeping in a crib pull rack to reveal SAM is standing over the crib. KAFFEE's sitting on a beer. SAM When Nancy gets back, you're my witness. The baby spoke. My daughter said a word. KAFFEE Your daughter made a sound, Sam, I'm not sure it was a word. SAM Oh come on, it was a word. KAFFEE Okay. SAM You heard her. The girl sat here, pointed, and said "Pa". She did. She said "Pa". KAFFEE She was pointing at a doorknob. SAM That's right. Pointing, as if to say, "Pa, look, a doorknob". SAM joins KAFFEE in the living room. KAFFEE Jack Ross came to see me today. He offered me twelve years. SAM That's what you wanted. KAFFEE I know, and I'll... I guess, I mean -- (beat) I'll take it. SAM So? KAFFEE It took albout 45 seconds. He barely put up a fight. SAM (beat) Danny, take the twelve years, it's a gift. KAFFEE finishes off his beer, and stands. KAFFEE You don't believe their story, do you? You think they ought to go to jail for the rest of their lives. SAM I believe every word they said. And I think they ought to go to jail for the rest of their lives. KAFFEE nods and puts down the empty beer bottle. KAFFEE I'll see you tomorrow. Sam opens the front door for him and they stand out on the stoop for a moment. SAM Remember to wear your whites, it's hot down there. KAFFEE I don't like the whites. SAM Nobody likes the whites, but we're going to Cuba in August. You got Dramamine? KAFFEE Dramamine keeps you cool? SAM Dramamine keeps you from throwing up, you get sick when you fly. KAFFEE I get sick when I fly because I'm afraid of crashing into a large mountain, I don't think Dramamine'll help. SAM I've got some oregano, I hear that works pretty good. KAFFEE Yeah, right. KAFFEE starts toward his car, then turns around. KAFFEE (continuing) You know, Ross said the strangest thing to me right before I left. He said the platoon commander Lieutenant Jonathan Kendrick had a meeting with the men and specifically told them not to touch Santiago. SAM So? KAFFEE I never mentioned Kendrick. I don't even know who he is. (beat) What the hell. (beat) I'll see you tomorrow. We hold for a moment on KAFFEE as he walks to his car, then CUT TO: EXT. THE AIRSTRIP AT GUANTANAMO BAY - DAY The whole place, in stark contrast to the Washington Navy Yard, is ready to go to war. Fighter jets line the tarmac. Ground crews re-fuel planes. Hurried activity. A 36 seat Airforce Jet rolls to a stop on the tarmac and a stair unit is brought up. HOWARD, a marine corporal, is waiting by the stairway as the passengers begin to got off. Mostly MARINES, a few SAILORS, a couple of CIVILIANS, and KAFFEE, JO and SAM. KAFFEE and SAM are wearing their summer whites, JO is in khakis. KAFFEE and SAM stare out at what they see: They're not in Kansas anymore. HOWARD shouts over the noise from the planes. HOWARD Lieutenants Kaffee and Weinberg? KAFFEE (shouting) Yeah. JO Commander Galloway. HOWARD I'm Corporal Howard, ma'am, I'm to escort you to the Windward side of the base. JO Thank you. HOWARD I've got some camouflage jackets in the back of the jeep, sirs, I'll have to ask you both to put them on. KAFFEE Camouflage jackets? HOWARD Regulations, sir. We'll be riding pretty close to the fenceline. The Cubans see an officer wearing white, they think it's someone they might wanna take a shot at. KAFFEE turns and glares at SAM. KAFFEE Good call, Sam. CUT TO: EXT. CUBAN ROAD - THE JEEP - DAY Tearing along down the road, and now we see a beautiful expanse of water, maybe 1000 yards across. It's a section of Guantanamo Bay. HOWARD (shouting) We'll just hop on the ferry and be over there in no time. KAFFEE (shouting) Whoa! Hold it! We gotta take a boat?! HOWARD Yes sir, to get to the other side of the bay. KAFFEE Nobody said anything about a boat. HOWARD (shouting) Is there a problem, sir? KAFFEE (shouting) No. No problem. I'm just not that crazy about boats, that's all. JO (shouting) Jesus Christ, Kaffee, you're in the Navy for cryin' out loud! KAFFEE (shouting) Nobody likes her very much. HOWARD (shouting) Yes sir. The jeep drives on and we CUT TO: JESSEP, MARKINSON and KENDRICK are standing as the LAWYERS are led in. JESSEP Nathan Jessep, come on in and siddown. KAFFEE Thank you. I'm Daniel Kaffee, I'm the attorney for Dawson and Downey. This is Joanne Galloway, she's observing and evaluating -- JO (shaking hands) Colonel. JESSEP Pleased to meet you, Commander. KAFFEE Sam Weinberg. He has no responsibility here whatsoever. JESSEP I've asked Captain Markinson and Lt. Kendrick to join us. MARKINSON Lt. Kaffee, I had the pleasure of seeing your father once. I was a teenager and he spoke at my high school. KAFFEE smiles and nods. JESSEP Lionel Kaffee? KAFFEE Yes sir. JESSEP Well what do you know. Son, this man's dad once made a lot of enemies down in your neck of the woods. Jefferson vs. Madison County School District. The folks down there said a little black girl couldn't go to an all white school, Lionel Kaffee said we'll just see about that. How the hell is your dad? KAFFEE He passed away seven years ago, colonel. JESSEP (pause) Well... don't I feel like the fuckin, asshole. KAFFEE Not at all, sir. JESSEP Well, what can we do for you, Danny. KAFFEE Not much at all, sir, I'm afraid. This is really a formality more than anything else. The JAG Corps insists that I interview all the relevant witnesses. JO The JAG Corps can be demanding that way. JESSEP smiles. JESSEP Jonanthan'll take you out and show you what you wanna see, then we can all hook up for lunch, how does that sound? KAFFEE Fine, sir. CUT TO: EXT. THE FENCELINE - DAY A SQUAD OF MARINES jogs by as a jeep carrying KENDRICK and the three LAWYERS cruises down the road. We FOLLOW the jeep. KAFFEE I understand you had a meeting with your men that afternoon. KENDRICK Yes. KAFFEE What'd you guys talk about? KENDRICK I told the men that there was an informer among us. And that despite any desire they might have to seek retribution, Private Santiago was not to be harmed in any way. KAFFEE What time was that meeting? KENDRICK Sixteen-hundred. KAFFEE turns around and looks at SAM. SAM (leaning forward) Four o'clock. CUT TO: INT. THE BARRACKS CORRIDOR - DAY KENDRICK leads the LAWYERS down the corridor to Santiago's room. Two strips of tape which warn DO NOT ENTER - AT ORDER OF THE MILITARY POLICE are crisscrossed over the closed door. They open the door and step under the tape and walk into INT. SANTIAGO'S ROOM - DAY The room is exactly an it was left that night. The un-made bed, the chair knocked over... The LAWYERS look around for a moment. The room is sparse. Kaffee goes to the closet and opens it: A row of uniforms hanging neatly. He thumbs through then for a second, but there's nothing there. He opens the footlocker: Socks, underwear... all folded to marine corp precision... A shaving kit, a couple of photographs, a pad of writing paper and some envelopes... Kaffee closes the footlocker. KAFFEE Sam, somebody should see about getting this stuff to his parents. We don't need it anymore. KENDRICK Actually, the uniforms belong to the marine corps. The LAWYERS take a moment. KAFFEE Lt. Kendrick -- can I call you Jon? KENDRICK No, you may not. KAFFEE (beat) Have I done something to offend you? KENDRICK No, I like all you Navy boys. Every time we've gotta go someplace and fight, you fellas always give us a ride. JO Lt. Kendrick, do you think Santiago was murdered? KENDRICK Commander, I believe in God, and in his son Jesus Christ, and because I do, I can say this: Private Santiago is dead and that's a tragedy. But he's dead because he had no code. He's dead because he had no honor. And God was watching. SAM turns to KAFFEE. SAM How do you feel about that theory? KAFFEE (beat) Sounds good. Let's move on. SAM and KENDRICK walk out the door. JO stops KAFFEE. JO You planning on doing any investigating or are you just gonna take the guided tour? KAFFEE (beat) I'm pacing myself. CUT TO: INT. THE OFFICERS CLUB - DAY JESSEP, MARKINSON, KENDRICK and the LAWYERS are seated at a table in the corner. Stewards clear the lunch dishes and pour coffee. Jessep is finishing a story. JESSEP ...And they spent the next three hours running around, looking for Americans to surrender to. JESSEP laughs. KENDRICK joins him. SAM and KAFFEE force a laugh. MARKINSON forces a smile. JO remains silent. JESSEP (continuing; to the STEWARDS) That was delicious, men, thank you. STEWARD Our pleasure, sir. KAFFEE Colonel just need to ask you a couple of questions about August 6th. JESSEP Shoot. KAFFEE On the morning of the sixth, you were contacted by an NIS angent who said that Santiago had tipped him off to an illegal fenceline shooting. JESSEP Yes. KAFFEE Santiago was gonna reveal the person's name in exchange for a transfer. An I getting this right? JESSEP Yes. KAFFEE If you feel there are any details that I'm missing, you should free to speak up. JESSEP's not quite sure what to say to this Navy Lawyer Lieutenant-Smartass guy who just gave him permission to speak freely on his own base. JESSEP Thank you. KAFFEE Now it was at this point that you called Captain Markinson and Lt. Kendrick into your office? JESSEP Yes. KAFFEE And what happened then? JESSEP We agreed that for his own safety, Santiago should be transferred off the base. Here's something else KAFFEE didn't know. Neither did Jo. SAM jots something down on a small notepad. MARKINSON doesn't flinch. KAFFEE Santiago was set to be transferred? JESSEP On the first available flight to the states. Six the next morning. Three hours too late as it turned out. KAFFEE nods. KAFFEE Yeah. There's silence for a moment. KAFFEE takes a sip of his coffee. Then drains the cup and puts it down. KAFFEE (continuing) Alright, that's all I have. Thanks very much for your time. KENDRICK The corporal's got the jeep outside, he'll take you back to the airstrip. KAFFEE (standing) Thank you. JO Wait a minute, I've got some questions. KAFFEE No you don't. JO Yes I do. KAFFEE No you don't. JO Colonel, on the morning that Santiago died, did you meet with Doctor Stone between three and five? KAFFEE Jo -- JESSEP Of course I met with the doctor. One of my men was dead. KAFFEE (to JO) See? The man was dead. Let's go. JO (to JESSEP) I was wondering if you've ever heard the term Code Red. KAFFEE Jo -- JESSEP I've heard the term, yes. JO Colonel, this past February, you received a cautionary memo from the Naval Investigative Service, warning that the practice of enlisted men disciplining their own wasn't to be condoned by officers. JESSEP I submit to you that whoever wrote that memo has never served on the working end of a Soviet-made Cuban Ml-Al6 Assault Rifle. However, the directive having come from the NIS, I gave it its due attention. What's your point, Jo? KAFFEE She has no point. She often has no point. It's part of her charm. We're outta here. Thank you. JO My point is that I think code reds still go on down here. Do Code Reds still happen on this base, colonel? KAFFEE Jo, the colonel doesn't need to answer that. JO Yes he does. KAFFEE No, he really doesn't. JO Yeah, he really does. Colonel? JESSEP You know it just hit me. She outranks you, Danny. KAFFEE Yes sir. JESSEP I want to tell you something Danny and listen up 'cause I mean this: You're the luckiest man in the world. There is, believe me gentlemen, nothing sexier on earth than a woman you have to salute in the morning. Promote 'em all I say. JO's not upset. JO's not mad. But she's gonna ask her question 'til she gets an answer. JO Colonel, the practice of code Reds is still condoned by officers on this base, isn't it? JESSEP You see my problem is, of course, that I'm a Colonel. I'll just have to keep taking cold showers 'til they elect some gal President. JO I need an answer to my question, sir. JESSEP Take caution in your tone, Commander. I'm a fair guy, but this fuckin' heat's making me absolutely crazy. You want to know about code reds? On the record I tell you that I discourage the practice in accordance with the NIS directive. Off the record I tell you that it's an invaluable part of close infantry training, and if it happens to go on without my knowledge, so be it. I run my base how I run my base. You want to investigate me, roll the dice and take your chances. I eat breakfast 80 yards away from 4000 Cubans who are trained to kill me. So don't for one second think you're gonna come down here, flash a badge, and make me nervous. A moment of tense silence before -- KAFFEE Let's go. Colonel, I'll just need a copy of Santiago's transfer order. JESSEP What's that? KAFFEE Santiago's transfer order. You guys have paper work on that kind of thing, I just need it for the file. JESSEP For the file. KAFFEE Yeah. JESSEP (pause) Of course you can have a copy of the transfer order. For the file. I'm here to help anyway I can. KAFFEE Thank you. JESSEP You believe that, don't you? Danny? That I'm here to help anyway I can? KAFFEE Of course. JESSEP The corporal'll run you by Ordinance on your way out to the airstrip. You can have all the transfer orders you want. KAFFEE (to JO and SAM) Let's go. The LAWYERS start to leave. JESSEP But you have to ask me nicely. KAFFEE stops. Turns around. Sam and JO stop and turn. KAFFEE I beg your pardon? JESSEP You have to ask me nicely. You see, Danny, I can deal with the bullets and the bombs and the blood. I can deal with the heat and the stress and the fear. I don't want money and I don't want medals. What I want is for you to stand there in that faggoty white uniform, and with your Harvard mouth, extend me some fuckin' courtesy. You gotta ask me nicely. KAFFEE and JESSEP are frozen. Everyone'staring at Kaffee; The OFFICERS at their tables... KENDRICK... SAM... MARKINSON... JO... KAFFEE makes his decision. KAFFEE Colonel Jessep... if it's not too much trouble, I'd like a copy of the transfer order. Sir. JESSEP smiles. JESSEP No problem. HOLD for a moment. JO's very disappointed. JESSEP stands there and watches the LAWYERS as they turn and leave the Officer's Club. JESSEP (continuing) I hate casualties, Matthew. There are casualties even in victory. A marine smothers a grenade and saves his platoon, that marine's a hero. The foundation of the unit, the fabric of this base, the spirit of the Corps, they are things worth fighting for. MARKINSON looks at the ground. JESSEP (continuing) Dawson and Downey, they don't know it, but they're smothering a grenade. MARKINSON looks up as we CUT TO: EXT. ANDREWS AIRFORCE BASE - DUSK As a plane touches down on the runway. It's dusk in Washington and CUT TO: EXT. KAFFEE'S APARTMENT - DAY A little one-bedroom. Just the essential furniture, barely even that. KAFFEE's sitting and watching a baseball came on t.v. He's holding a copy of The Baseball Encyclopedia, normally his favorite reading material, but right now he's having trouble keeping his mind in it. He's holding a baseball bat and fiddling with it. The remnants of a pizza and Yoo-Hoo dinner sit next to him. His white uniform in a pile in the corner. There's a BUZZ at the door. KAFFEE's not expecting anyone. He goes to the door. KAFFEE Who is it? JO (O.S.) It's me. KAFFEE opens the door and JO walks in. KAFFEE I've really missed you, Jo. I was just saying to myself, "It's been almost three hours since I last saw -- " JO Markinson resigned his commission. KAFFEE (pause) When? JO This afternoon. Sometime after we left. KAFFEE I'll talk to him in the morning. JO I already tried, I can't find him. KAFFEE You tried? Joanne, you're coming dangerously close to the textbook definition of interfering with a government investigation. JO hands KAFFEE the file she's been holding. JO I'm Louden Downey's attorney. KAFFEE's stunned. He opens the file and begins to read. JO (continuing) Aunt Ginny. She said she feels like she's known me for years. I suggested that she might feel more comfortable if I were directly involved with the case. She had Louden sign the papers about an hour ago. KAFFEE looks up. Still too stunned to say anything. Then finally... KAFFEE I suppose it's way too much to hope that you're just making this up to bother me. JO Don't worry, I'm not gonna make a motion for separation, you're still lead counsel. KAFFEE hands her back the file. KAFFEE Splendid. JO I think Kendrick ordered the Code Red. (beat) So do you. CUT TO: INT. A HOLDING ROOM IN THE BRIG - NIGHT DAWSON and DOWNEY come to attention as KAFFEE and JO are led in. DAWSON Officer on deck, ten hut. KAFFEE starts in immediately. KAFFEE Did Kendrick order the code red? DAWSON Sir? KAFFEE Don't say sir like I just asked you if you cleaned the latrine. You heard what I said. Did Lt. Kendrick order you guys to give Santiago a code red? DAWSON Yes sir. KAFFEE (to Downey) Did he? DOWNEY Yes sir. KAFFEE You mind telling me why the hell you never mentioned this before? DAWSON You didn't ask us, sir. KAFFEE Cutie-pie shit's not gonna win you a place in my heart, corporal, I get paid no matter how much time you spend in jail. DAWSON Yes

cuba

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

was damn funny. Jo moves close to KAFFEE to say this with a degree of confidentiality. JO I do know you. Daniel AlliStair Kaffee, born June 8th, 1964 at Boston Mercy Hospital. Your father's Lionel Kaffee, former Navy Judge Advocate and Attorney General, of the United States, died 1985. You went to Harvard Law on a Navy scholarship, probably because that's what your father wanted you to do, and now you're just treading water for the three years you've gotta serve in the JAG Corps, just kinda layin' low til you can get out and get a real job. And if that's the situation, that's fine, I won't tell anyone. But my feeling is that if this case is handled in the same fast-food, slick-ass, Persian Bazaar manner with which you seem to handle everything else, something's gonna get missed. And I wouldn't be doing my job if I allowed Dawson and Downey to spend any more time in prison than absolutely necessary, because their attorney had pre- determined the path of least resistance. KAFFEE can't help but be impressed by that speech. KAFFEE Wow. (beat) I'm sexually aroused, Commander. JO I don't think your clients murdered anybody. KAFFEE What are you basing this on? JO There was no intent. KAFFEE The doctor's report says that Santiago died of asphyxiation brought on by acute lactic acidosis, and that the nature of the acidosis strongly suggests poisoning. (beat) Now, I don't know what any of that means, but it sounds pretty bad. JO Santiago died at one a.m. At three the doctor was unable to determine the cause of death, but two hours later he said it was poison. KAFFEE Oh, now I see what you're saying. It had to be Professor Plum in the library with the candlestick. JO I'm gonna speak to your supervisor. KAFFEE Okay. You go straight up Pennsylvania Avenue. It's a big white house with pillars in front. JO Thank you. KAFFEE I don't think you'll have much luck, though. I was assigned by Division, remember? Somebody over there thinks I'm a good lawyer. So while I appreciate your interest and admire your enthusiasm, I think I can pretty much handle things myself. JO Do you know what a code red is? KAFFEE doesn't, but he doesn't say anything. JO (continuing) What a pity. CUT TO: INT. THE BRIG - DAY And an M.P. is leading KAFFEE and SAM down to DAWSON and DOWNEY's cell. M.P. Officer on deck, ten-hut. DAWSON and DOWNEY come to attention. Through the following, the M.P. will unlock the call door and let the lawyers in. DAWSON Sir, Lance Corporal Harold W. Dawson, sir. Rifle Security Company Windward, Second Platoon, Delta. KAFFEE Someone hasn't been working and playing well with others, Harold. DAWSON Sir, yes sir! DOWNEY Sir, PFC Louden Downey. KAFFEE I'm Daniel Kaffee, this is Sam Weinerg, you can sitdown. DAWSON and DOWNEY aren't too comfortable sitting in the presence of officers, but they do as they're told. KAFFEE's pulled out some documents, SAM's sitting on one of the cots taking notes. KAFFEE (continuing; to DAWSON) Is this your signature? DAWSON Yes sir. KAFFEE You don't have to call me sir. (to DOWNEY) Is this your signature? DOWNEY Sir, yes sir. KAFFEE And you certainly don't have to do it twice in one sentence. Harold, what's a Code Red? DAWSON Sir, a Code Red is a disciplinary engagement. KAFFEE What does that mean, exactly? DAWSON Sir, a marine falls out of line, it's up to the men in his unit to get him back on track. KAFFEE What's a garden variety Code Red? DAWSON Sir? KAFFEE Harold, you say sir and I turn around and look for my father. Danny, Daniel, Kaffee. Garden variety; typical. What's a basic Code Red? DAWSON Sir, a marine has refused to bathe on a regular basis. The men in his squad would give him a G.I. shower. KAFFEE What's that? DAWSON Scrub brushes, brillo pads, steel wool... SAM Beautiful. KAFFEE Was the attack on Santiago a Code Red? DAWSON Yes sir. KAFFEE (to DOWNEY) Do you ever talk? DAWSON Sir, Private Downey will answer any direct questions you ask him. KAFFEE Swell. Private Downey, the rag you stuffed in Santiago's mouth, was there poison on it? DOWNEY No sir. KAFFEE Silver polish, turpentine, anti- freeze... DOWNEY No sir. We were gonna shave his head, sir. KAFFEE When all of a sudden...? DOWNEY We saw blood drippinq out of his mouth. Then we pulled the tape off, and there was blood all down his face, sir. That's when Corporal Dawson called the ambulance. KAFFEE tries not to make too big a deal out of this last piece of news. KAFFEE (to DAWSON) Did anyone see you call the ambulance? DAWSON No sir. KAFFEE Were you there when the ambulance got there? DAWSON Yes sir, that's when we were taken under arrest. KAFFEE kinda strolls to the corner of the cell to think for a moment. SAM (to DAWSON) On the night of August 2nd, did you fire a shot across the fenceline into Cuba? DAWSON Yes sir. SAM Why? DAWSON My mirror engaged, sir. KAFFEE (to SAM) His mirror engaged? SAM For each American sentry post there's a Cuban counterpart. They're called mirrors. The corporal's claiming that his mirror was about to fire at him. KAFFEE Santiago's letter to the NIS said you fired illegally. He's saying that the guy, the mirror, he never made a move. DAWSON says nothing. KAFFEE (continuing) Oh, Harold? SAM is staring at DAWSON. KAFFEE (continuing) You see what I'm getting at? If Santiago didn't have anything on you, then why did you give him a Code Red? DAWSON Because he broke the chain of command, sir. KAFFEE He what? DAWSON He went outside his unit, sir. If he had a problem, he should've spoken to me, sir. Then his Sergeant, then Company Commander, then -- KAFFEE Yeah, yeah, alright. Harold, did you assault Santiago with the intent of killing him? DAWSON No sir. KAFFEE What was your intent? DAWSON To train him, sir. KAFFEE Train him to do what? DAWSON Train him to think of his unit before himself. To respect the code. SAM What's the code? DAWSON Unit Corps God Country. SAM I beg your pardon? DAWSON Unit Corps God Country, sir. KAFFEE The Goverrment of the United States wants to charge you two with murder. You want me to go to the prosecutor with unit, corps, god, country? DAWSON stares at KAFFEE. DAWSON That's our code, sir. KAFFEE takes a long moment. He picks up his briefcase and he and SAM move to the door. KAFFEE We'll be back. You guys need anything? Books paper, cigarettes, a ham sandwich? DAWSON Sir. No thank you. Sir. KAFFEE smiles at DAWSON. KAFFEE Harold, I think there's a concept you better start warming up to. DAWSON Sir? KAFFEE I'm the only friend you've got. And as KAFFEE and SAM walk out the open cell door, DAWSON and DOWNEY come to attention and snap a salute. They hold the salute until KAFFEE and SAM are well out of sight, and we CUT TO: INT. KAFFEE'S OFFICE - DAY He's packing up stuff into his briefcase at the end of the work day. Lt. JACK ROSS, a marine lawyer maybe two years older than Kaffee, opens the door and walks in.. ROSS Dan Kaffee. KAFFEE Sailin' Jack Ross. ROSS Welcome to the big time. KAFFEE You think so? ROSS I hope for Dawson and Downey's sake you practice law better than you play softball. KAFFEE Unfortunately for Dawson and Downey, I don't do anything better than I play softball. What are we lookin' at? ROSS They plead guilty to manslaughter, I'll drop the conspiracy and the conduct unbecoming. 20 years, they'll be home in half that time. KAFFEE I want twelve. ROSS Can't do it. KAFFEE They called the ambulance, Jack. ROSS I don't care if they called the Avon Lady, they killed a marine. KAFFEE The rag was tested for poison. The autopsy, lab report, even the initial E.R. and C.O.D. reports. They all say the same thing: Maybe, maybe not. ROSS The Chief of Internal Medicine at the Guantanamo Bay Naval hospital says he's sure. KAFFEE What do you know about Code Reds? ROSS smiles and shakes his head. ROSS Oh man. He closes the office door. ROSS (continuing) Are we off the record? KAFFEE You tell me. ROSS (pause) I'm gonna give you the twelve years, but before you go getting yourself into trouble tomorrow, you should know this: The platoon commander Lt. Jonathan Kendrick, had a meeting with the men. And he specifically told them not to touch Santiago. KAFFEE holds for a moment. Dawson and Downey neglected to mention this... He packs up his briefcase and cleats. KAFFEE I'll talk to you when I get back. ROSS Hey, we got a little four-on-four going tomorrow night. When does your plane get in? CUT TO: EXT. THE PARKING LOT - DUSK It's dusk and people on the base are going home from work. We can see the flag being lowered in the background. KAFFEE's walking toward his car. JO intercepts him and starts walking along with him. JO Hi there. KAFFEE Any luck getting me replaced? JO Is there anyone in this command that you don't either drink or play softball with? KAFFEE Commander -- JO Listen, I came to make peace. We started off on the wrong foot. What do you say? Friends? KAFFEE Look, I don't -- JO By the way, I brought Downey some comic books he was asking for. The kid, Kaffee, I swear, he doesn't know where he is, he doesn't even know why he's been arrested. KAFFEE Commander -- JO You can call me Joanne. KAFFEE Joanne -- JO or Jo. KAFFEE Jo? JO Yes. KAFFEE Jo, if you ever speak to a client of mine again without my permission, I'll have you disbarred. Friends? JO I had authorization. KAFFEE From where? JO Downey's closest living relative, Ginny Miller, his aunt on his mother's side. KAFFEE You got authorization from Aunt Ginny? JO I gave her a call like you asked. Very nice woman, we talked for about an hour. KAFFEE You got authorization from Aunt Ginny. JO Perfectly within my province. KAFFEE Does Aunt Ginny have a barn? We can hold the trial there. I can sew the costumes, and maybe his Uncle Goober can be the judge. Jo steps aside and lets KAFFEE got into his car. JO I'm going to Cuba with you tomorrow. KAFFEE And the hits just keep on comin'. HOLD on KAFFEE and Jo. JO smiles. CUT TO: EXT. SIDEWALK NEWSSTAND - DUSK KAFFEE IN HIS CAR He's driving down a Washington street and pulls over at a sidewalk newsstand. He gets out of his car, leaving the lights flashing, and runs up to the newsstand. As he plunks his 35 cents down and picks up a newspaper, he engages in his daily ritual with LUTHER, the newsstand operator. KAFFEE How's it goin', Luther? LUTHER Another day, another dollar, captain. KAFFEE You gotta play 'em as they lay, Luther. LUTHER What comes around, goes around, you know what I'm sayin'. KAFFEE If you can't beat 'em, join 'em. LUTHER Hey, if you've got your health, you got everything. KAFFEE Love makes the world go round. I'll see you tomorrow, Luther. And we CUT TO: INT. SAM'S LIVING ROOM - NIGHT A baby sleeping in a crib pull rack to reveal SAM is standing over the crib. KAFFEE's sitting on a beer. SAM When Nancy gets back, you're my witness. The baby spoke. My daughter said a word. KAFFEE Your daughter made a sound, Sam, I'm not sure it was a word. SAM Oh come on, it was a word. KAFFEE Okay. SAM You heard her. The girl sat here, pointed, and said "Pa". She did. She said "Pa". KAFFEE She was pointing at a doorknob. SAM That's right. Pointing, as if to say, "Pa, look, a doorknob". SAM joins KAFFEE in the living room. KAFFEE Jack Ross came to see me today. He offered me twelve years. SAM That's what you wanted. KAFFEE I know, and I'll... I guess, I mean -- (beat) I'll take it. SAM So? KAFFEE It took albout 45 seconds. He barely put up a fight. SAM (beat) Danny, take the twelve years, it's a gift. KAFFEE finishes off his beer, and stands. KAFFEE You don't believe their story, do you? You think they ought to go to jail for the rest of their lives. SAM I believe every word they said. And I think they ought to go to jail for the rest of their lives. KAFFEE nods and puts down the empty beer bottle. KAFFEE I'll see you tomorrow. Sam opens the front door for him and they stand out on the stoop for a moment. SAM Remember to wear your whites, it's hot down there. KAFFEE I don't like the whites. SAM Nobody likes the whites, but we're going to Cuba in August. You got Dramamine? KAFFEE Dramamine keeps you cool? SAM Dramamine keeps you from throwing up, you get sick when you fly. KAFFEE I get sick when I fly because I'm afraid of crashing into a large mountain, I don't think Dramamine'll help. SAM I've got some oregano, I hear that works pretty good. KAFFEE Yeah, right. KAFFEE starts toward his car, then turns around. KAFFEE (continuing) You know, Ross said the strangest thing to me right before I left. He said the platoon commander Lieutenant Jonathan Kendrick had a meeting with the men and specifically told them not to touch Santiago. SAM So? KAFFEE I never mentioned Kendrick. I don't even know who he is. (beat) What the hell. (beat) I'll see you tomorrow. We hold for a moment on KAFFEE as he walks to his car, then CUT TO: EXT. THE AIRSTRIP AT GUANTANAMO BAY - DAY The whole place, in stark contrast to the Washington Navy Yard, is ready to go to war. Fighter jets line the tarmac. Ground crews re-fuel planes. Hurried activity. A 36 seat Airforce Jet rolls to a stop on the tarmac and a stair unit is brought up. HOWARD, a marine corporal, is waiting by the stairway as the passengers begin to got off. Mostly MARINES, a few SAILORS, a couple of CIVILIANS, and KAFFEE, JO and SAM. KAFFEE and SAM are wearing their summer whites, JO is in khakis. KAFFEE and SAM stare out at what they see: They're not in Kansas anymore. HOWARD shouts over the noise from the planes. HOWARD Lieutenants Kaffee and Weinberg? KAFFEE (shouting) Yeah. JO Commander Galloway. HOWARD I'm Corporal Howard, ma'am, I'm to escort you to the Windward side of the base. JO Thank you. HOWARD I've got some camouflage jackets in the back of the jeep, sirs, I'll have to ask you both to put them on. KAFFEE Camouflage jackets? HOWARD Regulations, sir. We'll be riding pretty close to the fenceline. The Cubans see an officer wearing white, they think it's someone they might wanna take a shot at. KAFFEE turns and glares at SAM. KAFFEE Good call, Sam. CUT TO: EXT. CUBAN ROAD - THE JEEP - DAY Tearing along down the road, and now we see a beautiful expanse of water, maybe 1000 yards across. It's a section of Guantanamo Bay. HOWARD (shouting) We'll just hop on the ferry and be over there in no time. KAFFEE (shouting) Whoa! Hold it! We gotta take a boat?! HOWARD Yes sir, to get to the other side of the bay. KAFFEE Nobody said anything about a boat. HOWARD (shouting) Is there a problem, sir? KAFFEE (shouting) No. No problem. I'm just not that crazy about boats, that's all. JO (shouting) Jesus Christ, Kaffee, you're in the Navy for cryin' out loud! KAFFEE (shouting) Nobody likes her very much. HOWARD (shouting) Yes sir. The jeep drives on and we CUT TO: JESSEP, MARKINSON and KENDRICK are standing as the LAWYERS are led in. JESSEP Nathan Jessep, come on in and siddown. KAFFEE Thank you. I'm Daniel Kaffee, I'm the attorney for Dawson and Downey. This is Joanne Galloway, she's observing and evaluating -- JO (shaking hands) Colonel. JESSEP Pleased to meet you, Commander. KAFFEE Sam Weinberg. He has no responsibility here whatsoever. JESSEP I've asked Captain Markinson and Lt. Kendrick to join us. MARKINSON Lt. Kaffee, I had the pleasure of seeing your father once. I was a teenager and he spoke at my high school. KAFFEE smiles and nods. JESSEP Lionel Kaffee? KAFFEE Yes sir. JESSEP Well what do you know. Son, this man's dad once made a lot of enemies down in your neck of the woods. Jefferson vs. Madison County School District. The folks down there said a little black girl couldn't go to an all white school, Lionel Kaffee said we'll just see about that. How the hell is your dad? KAFFEE He passed away seven years ago, colonel. JESSEP (pause) Well... don't I feel like the fuckin, asshole. KAFFEE Not at all, sir. JESSEP Well, what can we do for you, Danny. KAFFEE Not much at all, sir, I'm afraid. This is really a formality more than anything else. The JAG Corps insists that I interview all the relevant witnesses. JO The JAG Corps can be demanding that way. JESSEP smiles. JESSEP Jonanthan'll take you out and show you what you wanna see, then we can all hook up for lunch, how does that sound? KAFFEE Fine, sir. CUT TO: EXT. THE FENCELINE - DAY A SQUAD OF MARINES jogs by as a jeep carrying KENDRICK and the three LAWYERS cruises down the road. We FOLLOW the jeep. KAFFEE I understand you had a meeting with your men that afternoon. KENDRICK Yes. KAFFEE What'd you guys talk about? KENDRICK I told the men that there was an informer among us. And that despite any desire they might have to seek retribution, Private Santiago was not to be harmed in any way. KAFFEE What time was that meeting? KENDRICK Sixteen-hundred. KAFFEE turns around and looks at SAM. SAM (leaning forward) Four o'clock. CUT TO: INT. THE BARRACKS CORRIDOR - DAY KENDRICK leads the LAWYERS down the corridor to Santiago's room. Two strips of tape which warn DO NOT ENTER - AT ORDER OF THE MILITARY POLICE are crisscrossed over the closed door. They open the door and step under the tape and walk into INT. SANTIAGO'S ROOM - DAY The room is exactly an it was left that night. The un-made bed, the chair knocked over... The LAWYERS look around for a moment. The room is sparse. Kaffee goes to the closet and opens it: A row of uniforms hanging neatly. He thumbs through then for a second, but there's nothing there. He opens the footlocker: Socks, underwear... all folded to marine corp precision... A shaving kit, a couple of photographs, a pad of writing paper and some envelopes... Kaffee closes the footlocker. KAFFEE Sam, somebody should see about getting this stuff to his parents. We don't need it anymore. KENDRICK Actually, the uniforms belong to the marine corps. The LAWYERS take a moment. KAFFEE Lt. Kendrick -- can I call you Jon? KENDRICK No, you may not. KAFFEE (beat) Have I done something to offend you? KENDRICK No, I like all you Navy boys. Every time we've gotta go someplace and fight, you fellas always give us a ride. JO Lt. Kendrick, do you think Santiago was murdered? KENDRICK Commander, I believe in God, and in his son Jesus Christ, and because I do, I can say this: Private Santiago is dead and that's a tragedy. But he's dead because he had no code. He's dead because he had no honor. And God was watching. SAM turns to KAFFEE. SAM How do you feel about that theory? KAFFEE (beat) Sounds good. Let's move on. SAM and KENDRICK walk out the door. JO stops KAFFEE. JO You planning on doing any investigating or are you just gonna take the guided tour? KAFFEE (beat) I'm pacing myself. CUT TO: INT. THE OFFICERS CLUB - DAY JESSEP, MARKINSON, KENDRICK and the LAWYERS are seated at a table in the corner. Stewards clear the lunch dishes and pour coffee. Jessep is finishing a story. JESSEP ...And they spent the next three hours running around, looking for Americans to surrender to. JESSEP laughs. KENDRICK joins him. SAM and KAFFEE force a laugh. MARKINSON forces a smile. JO remains silent. JESSEP (continuing; to the STEWARDS) That was delicious, men, thank you. STEWARD Our pleasure, sir. KAFFEE Colonel just need to ask you a couple of questions about August 6th. JESSEP Shoot. KAFFEE On the morning of the sixth, you were contacted by an NIS angent who said that Santiago had tipped him off to an illegal fenceline shooting. JESSEP Yes. KAFFEE Santiago was gonna reveal the person's name in exchange for a transfer. An I getting this right? JESSEP Yes. KAFFEE If you feel there are any details that I'm missing, you should free to speak up. JESSEP's not quite sure what to say to this Navy Lawyer Lieutenant-Smartass guy who just gave him permission to speak freely on his own base. JESSEP Thank you. KAFFEE Now it was at this point that you called Captain Markinson and Lt. Kendrick into your office? JESSEP Yes. KAFFEE And what happened then? JESSEP We agreed that for his own safety, Santiago should be transferred off the base. Here's something else KAFFEE didn't know. Neither did Jo. SAM jots something down on a small notepad. MARKINSON doesn't flinch. KAFFEE Santiago was set to be transferred? JESSEP On the first available flight to the states. Six the next morning. Three hours too late as it turned out. KAFFEE nods. KAFFEE Yeah. There's silence for a moment. KAFFEE takes a sip of his coffee. Then drains the cup and puts it down. KAFFEE (continuing) Alright, that's all I have. Thanks very much for your time. KENDRICK The corporal's got the jeep outside, he'll take you back to the airstrip. KAFFEE (standing) Thank you. JO Wait a minute, I've got some questions. KAFFEE No you don't. JO Yes I do. KAFFEE No you don't. JO Colonel, on the morning that Santiago died, did you meet with Doctor Stone between three and five? KAFFEE Jo -- JESSEP Of course I met with the doctor. One of my men was dead. KAFFEE (to JO) See? The man was dead. Let's go. JO (to JESSEP) I was wondering if you've ever heard the term Code Red. KAFFEE Jo -- JESSEP I've heard the term, yes. JO Colonel, this past February, you received a cautionary memo from the Naval Investigative Service, warning that the practice of enlisted men disciplining their own wasn't to be condoned by officers. JESSEP I submit to you that whoever wrote that memo has never served on the working end of a Soviet-made Cuban Ml-Al6 Assault Rifle. However, the directive having come from the NIS, I gave it its due attention. What's your point, Jo? KAFFEE She has no point. She often has no point. It's part of her charm. We're outta here. Thank you. JO My point is that I think code reds still go on down here. Do Code Reds still happen on this base, colonel? KAFFEE Jo, the colonel doesn't need to answer that. JO Yes he does. KAFFEE No, he really doesn't. JO Yeah, he really does. Colonel? JESSEP You know it just hit me. She outranks you, Danny. KAFFEE Yes sir. JESSEP I want to tell you something Danny and listen up 'cause I mean this: You're the luckiest man in the world. There is, believe me gentlemen, nothing sexier on earth than a woman you have to salute in the morning. Promote 'em all I say. JO's not upset. JO's not mad. But she's gonna ask her question 'til she gets an answer. JO Colonel, the practice of code Reds is still condoned by officers on this base, isn't it? JESSEP You see my problem is, of course, that I'm a Colonel. I'll just have to keep taking cold showers 'til they elect some gal President. JO I need an answer to my question, sir. JESSEP Take caution in your tone, Commander. I'm a fair guy, but this fuckin' heat's making me absolutely crazy. You want to know about code reds? On the record I tell you that I discourage the practice in accordance with the NIS directive. Off the record I tell you that it's an invaluable part of close infantry training, and if it happens to go on without my knowledge, so be it. I run my base how I run my base. You want to investigate me, roll the dice and take your chances. I eat breakfast 80 yards away from 4000 Cubans who are trained to kill me. So don't for one second think you're gonna come down here, flash a badge, and make me nervous. A moment of tense silence before -- KAFFEE Let's go. Colonel, I'll just need a copy of Santiago's transfer order. JESSEP What's that? KAFFEE Santiago's transfer order. You guys have paper work on that kind of thing, I just need it for the file. JESSEP For the file. KAFFEE Yeah. JESSEP (pause) Of course you can have a copy of the transfer order. For the file. I'm here to help anyway I can. KAFFEE Thank you. JESSEP You believe that, don't you? Danny? That I'm here to help anyway I can? KAFFEE Of course. JESSEP The corporal'll run you by Ordinance on your way out to the airstrip. You can have all the transfer orders you want. KAFFEE (to JO and SAM) Let's go. The LAWYERS start to leave. JESSEP But you have to ask me nicely. KAFFEE stops. Turns around. Sam and JO stop and turn. KAFFEE I beg your pardon? JESSEP You have to ask me nicely. You see, Danny, I can deal with the bullets and the bombs and the blood. I can deal with the heat and the stress and the fear. I don't want money and I don't want medals. What I want is for you to stand there in that faggoty white uniform, and with your Harvard mouth, extend me some fuckin' courtesy. You gotta ask me nicely. KAFFEE and JESSEP are frozen. Everyone'staring at Kaffee; The OFFICERS at their tables... KENDRICK... SAM... MARKINSON... JO... KAFFEE makes his decision. KAFFEE Colonel Jessep... if it's not too much trouble, I'd like a copy of the transfer order. Sir. JESSEP smiles. JESSEP No problem. HOLD for a moment. JO's very disappointed. JESSEP stands there and watches the LAWYERS as they turn and leave the Officer's Club. JESSEP (continuing) I hate casualties, Matthew. There are casualties even in victory. A marine smothers a grenade and saves his platoon, that marine's a hero. The foundation of the unit, the fabric of this base, the spirit of the Corps, they are things worth fighting for. MARKINSON looks at the ground. JESSEP (continuing) Dawson and Downey, they don't know it, but they're smothering a grenade. MARKINSON looks up as we CUT TO: EXT. ANDREWS AIRFORCE BASE - DUSK As a plane touches down on the runway. It's dusk in Washington and CUT TO: EXT. KAFFEE'S APARTMENT - DAY A little one-bedroom. Just the essential furniture, barely even that. KAFFEE's sitting and watching a baseball came on t.v. He's holding a copy of The Baseball Encyclopedia, normally his favorite reading material, but right now he's having trouble keeping his mind in it. He's holding a baseball bat and fiddling with it. The remnants of a pizza and Yoo-Hoo dinner sit next to him. His white uniform in a pile in the corner. There's a BUZZ at the door. KAFFEE's not expecting anyone. He goes to the door. KAFFEE Who is it? JO (O.S.) It's me. KAFFEE opens the door and JO walks in. KAFFEE I've really missed you, Jo. I was just saying to myself, "It's been almost three hours since I last saw -- " JO Markinson resigned his commission. KAFFEE (pause) When? JO This afternoon. Sometime after we left. KAFFEE I'll talk to him in the morning. JO I already tried, I can't find him. KAFFEE You tried? Joanne, you're coming dangerously close to the textbook definition of interfering with a government investigation. JO hands KAFFEE the file she's been holding. JO I'm Louden Downey's attorney. KAFFEE's stunned. He opens the file and begins to read. JO (continuing) Aunt Ginny. She said she feels like she's known me for years. I suggested that she might feel more comfortable if I were directly involved with the case. She had Louden sign the papers about an hour ago. KAFFEE looks up. Still too stunned to say anything. Then finally... KAFFEE I suppose it's way too much to hope that you're just making this up to bother me. JO Don't worry, I'm not gonna make a motion for separation, you're still lead counsel. KAFFEE hands her back the file. KAFFEE Splendid. JO I think Kendrick ordered the Code Red. (beat) So do you. CUT TO: INT. A HOLDING ROOM IN THE BRIG - NIGHT DAWSON and DOWNEY come to attention as KAFFEE and JO are led in. DAWSON Officer on deck, ten hut. KAFFEE starts in immediately. KAFFEE Did Kendrick order the code red? DAWSON Sir? KAFFEE Don't say sir like I just asked you if you cleaned the latrine. You heard what I said. Did Lt. Kendrick order you guys to give Santiago a code red? DAWSON Yes sir. KAFFEE (to Downey) Did he? DOWNEY Yes sir. KAFFEE You mind telling me why the hell you never mentioned this before? DAWSON You didn't ask us, sir. KAFFEE Cutie-pie shit's not gonna win you a place in my heart, corporal, I get paid no matter how much time you spend in jail. DAWSON Yes

offered

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

was damn funny. Jo moves close to KAFFEE to say this with a degree of confidentiality. JO I do know you. Daniel AlliStair Kaffee, born June 8th, 1964 at Boston Mercy Hospital. Your father's Lionel Kaffee, former Navy Judge Advocate and Attorney General, of the United States, died 1985. You went to Harvard Law on a Navy scholarship, probably because that's what your father wanted you to do, and now you're just treading water for the three years you've gotta serve in the JAG Corps, just kinda layin' low til you can get out and get a real job. And if that's the situation, that's fine, I won't tell anyone. But my feeling is that if this case is handled in the same fast-food, slick-ass, Persian Bazaar manner with which you seem to handle everything else, something's gonna get missed. And I wouldn't be doing my job if I allowed Dawson and Downey to spend any more time in prison than absolutely necessary, because their attorney had pre- determined the path of least resistance. KAFFEE can't help but be impressed by that speech. KAFFEE Wow. (beat) I'm sexually aroused, Commander. JO I don't think your clients murdered anybody. KAFFEE What are you basing this on? JO There was no intent. KAFFEE The doctor's report says that Santiago died of asphyxiation brought on by acute lactic acidosis, and that the nature of the acidosis strongly suggests poisoning. (beat) Now, I don't know what any of that means, but it sounds pretty bad. JO Santiago died at one a.m. At three the doctor was unable to determine the cause of death, but two hours later he said it was poison. KAFFEE Oh, now I see what you're saying. It had to be Professor Plum in the library with the candlestick. JO I'm gonna speak to your supervisor. KAFFEE Okay. You go straight up Pennsylvania Avenue. It's a big white house with pillars in front. JO Thank you. KAFFEE I don't think you'll have much luck, though. I was assigned by Division, remember? Somebody over there thinks I'm a good lawyer. So while I appreciate your interest and admire your enthusiasm, I think I can pretty much handle things myself. JO Do you know what a code red is? KAFFEE doesn't, but he doesn't say anything. JO (continuing) What a pity. CUT TO: INT. THE BRIG - DAY And an M.P. is leading KAFFEE and SAM down to DAWSON and DOWNEY's cell. M.P. Officer on deck, ten-hut. DAWSON and DOWNEY come to attention. Through the following, the M.P. will unlock the call door and let the lawyers in. DAWSON Sir, Lance Corporal Harold W. Dawson, sir. Rifle Security Company Windward, Second Platoon, Delta. KAFFEE Someone hasn't been working and playing well with others, Harold. DAWSON Sir, yes sir! DOWNEY Sir, PFC Louden Downey. KAFFEE I'm Daniel Kaffee, this is Sam Weinerg, you can sitdown. DAWSON and DOWNEY aren't too comfortable sitting in the presence of officers, but they do as they're told. KAFFEE's pulled out some documents, SAM's sitting on one of the cots taking notes. KAFFEE (continuing; to DAWSON) Is this your signature? DAWSON Yes sir. KAFFEE You don't have to call me sir. (to DOWNEY) Is this your signature? DOWNEY Sir, yes sir. KAFFEE And you certainly don't have to do it twice in one sentence. Harold, what's a Code Red? DAWSON Sir, a Code Red is a disciplinary engagement. KAFFEE What does that mean, exactly? DAWSON Sir, a marine falls out of line, it's up to the men in his unit to get him back on track. KAFFEE What's a garden variety Code Red? DAWSON Sir? KAFFEE Harold, you say sir and I turn around and look for my father. Danny, Daniel, Kaffee. Garden variety; typical. What's a basic Code Red? DAWSON Sir, a marine has refused to bathe on a regular basis. The men in his squad would give him a G.I. shower. KAFFEE What's that? DAWSON Scrub brushes, brillo pads, steel wool... SAM Beautiful. KAFFEE Was the attack on Santiago a Code Red? DAWSON Yes sir. KAFFEE (to DOWNEY) Do you ever talk? DAWSON Sir, Private Downey will answer any direct questions you ask him. KAFFEE Swell. Private Downey, the rag you stuffed in Santiago's mouth, was there poison on it? DOWNEY No sir. KAFFEE Silver polish, turpentine, anti- freeze... DOWNEY No sir. We were gonna shave his head, sir. KAFFEE When all of a sudden...? DOWNEY We saw blood drippinq out of his mouth. Then we pulled the tape off, and there was blood all down his face, sir. That's when Corporal Dawson called the ambulance. KAFFEE tries not to make too big a deal out of this last piece of news. KAFFEE (to DAWSON) Did anyone see you call the ambulance? DAWSON No sir. KAFFEE Were you there when the ambulance got there? DAWSON Yes sir, that's when we were taken under arrest. KAFFEE kinda strolls to the corner of the cell to think for a moment. SAM (to DAWSON) On the night of August 2nd, did you fire a shot across the fenceline into Cuba? DAWSON Yes sir. SAM Why? DAWSON My mirror engaged, sir. KAFFEE (to SAM) His mirror engaged? SAM For each American sentry post there's a Cuban counterpart. They're called mirrors. The corporal's claiming that his mirror was about to fire at him. KAFFEE Santiago's letter to the NIS said you fired illegally. He's saying that the guy, the mirror, he never made a move. DAWSON says nothing. KAFFEE (continuing) Oh, Harold? SAM is staring at DAWSON. KAFFEE (continuing) You see what I'm getting at? If Santiago didn't have anything on you, then why did you give him a Code Red? DAWSON Because he broke the chain of command, sir. KAFFEE He what? DAWSON He went outside his unit, sir. If he had a problem, he should've spoken to me, sir. Then his Sergeant, then Company Commander, then -- KAFFEE Yeah, yeah, alright. Harold, did you assault Santiago with the intent of killing him? DAWSON No sir. KAFFEE What was your intent? DAWSON To train him, sir. KAFFEE Train him to do what? DAWSON Train him to think of his unit before himself. To respect the code. SAM What's the code? DAWSON Unit Corps God Country. SAM I beg your pardon? DAWSON Unit Corps God Country, sir. KAFFEE The Goverrment of the United States wants to charge you two with murder. You want me to go to the prosecutor with unit, corps, god, country? DAWSON stares at KAFFEE. DAWSON That's our code, sir. KAFFEE takes a long moment. He picks up his briefcase and he and SAM move to the door. KAFFEE We'll be back. You guys need anything? Books paper, cigarettes, a ham sandwich? DAWSON Sir. No thank you. Sir. KAFFEE smiles at DAWSON. KAFFEE Harold, I think there's a concept you better start warming up to. DAWSON Sir? KAFFEE I'm the only friend you've got. And as KAFFEE and SAM walk out the open cell door, DAWSON and DOWNEY come to attention and snap a salute. They hold the salute until KAFFEE and SAM are well out of sight, and we CUT TO: INT. KAFFEE'S OFFICE - DAY He's packing up stuff into his briefcase at the end of the work day. Lt. JACK ROSS, a marine lawyer maybe two years older than Kaffee, opens the door and walks in.. ROSS Dan Kaffee. KAFFEE Sailin' Jack Ross. ROSS Welcome to the big time. KAFFEE You think so? ROSS I hope for Dawson and Downey's sake you practice law better than you play softball. KAFFEE Unfortunately for Dawson and Downey, I don't do anything better than I play softball. What are we lookin' at? ROSS They plead guilty to manslaughter, I'll drop the conspiracy and the conduct unbecoming. 20 years, they'll be home in half that time. KAFFEE I want twelve. ROSS Can't do it. KAFFEE They called the ambulance, Jack. ROSS I don't care if they called the Avon Lady, they killed a marine. KAFFEE The rag was tested for poison. The autopsy, lab report, even the initial E.R. and C.O.D. reports. They all say the same thing: Maybe, maybe not. ROSS The Chief of Internal Medicine at the Guantanamo Bay Naval hospital says he's sure. KAFFEE What do you know about Code Reds? ROSS smiles and shakes his head. ROSS Oh man. He closes the office door. ROSS (continuing) Are we off the record? KAFFEE You tell me. ROSS (pause) I'm gonna give you the twelve years, but before you go getting yourself into trouble tomorrow, you should know this: The platoon commander Lt. Jonathan Kendrick, had a meeting with the men. And he specifically told them not to touch Santiago. KAFFEE holds for a moment. Dawson and Downey neglected to mention this... He packs up his briefcase and cleats. KAFFEE I'll talk to you when I get back. ROSS Hey, we got a little four-on-four going tomorrow night. When does your plane get in? CUT TO: EXT. THE PARKING LOT - DUSK It's dusk and people on the base are going home from work. We can see the flag being lowered in the background. KAFFEE's walking toward his car. JO intercepts him and starts walking along with him. JO Hi there. KAFFEE Any luck getting me replaced? JO Is there anyone in this command that you don't either drink or play softball with? KAFFEE Commander -- JO Listen, I came to make peace. We started off on the wrong foot. What do you say? Friends? KAFFEE Look, I don't -- JO By the way, I brought Downey some comic books he was asking for. The kid, Kaffee, I swear, he doesn't know where he is, he doesn't even know why he's been arrested. KAFFEE Commander -- JO You can call me Joanne. KAFFEE Joanne -- JO or Jo. KAFFEE Jo? JO Yes. KAFFEE Jo, if you ever speak to a client of mine again without my permission, I'll have you disbarred. Friends? JO I had authorization. KAFFEE From where? JO Downey's closest living relative, Ginny Miller, his aunt on his mother's side. KAFFEE You got authorization from Aunt Ginny? JO I gave her a call like you asked. Very nice woman, we talked for about an hour. KAFFEE You got authorization from Aunt Ginny. JO Perfectly within my province. KAFFEE Does Aunt Ginny have a barn? We can hold the trial there. I can sew the costumes, and maybe his Uncle Goober can be the judge. Jo steps aside and lets KAFFEE got into his car. JO I'm going to Cuba with you tomorrow. KAFFEE And the hits just keep on comin'. HOLD on KAFFEE and Jo. JO smiles. CUT TO: EXT. SIDEWALK NEWSSTAND - DUSK KAFFEE IN HIS CAR He's driving down a Washington street and pulls over at a sidewalk newsstand. He gets out of his car, leaving the lights flashing, and runs up to the newsstand. As he plunks his 35 cents down and picks up a newspaper, he engages in his daily ritual with LUTHER, the newsstand operator. KAFFEE How's it goin', Luther? LUTHER Another day, another dollar, captain. KAFFEE You gotta play 'em as they lay, Luther. LUTHER What comes around, goes around, you know what I'm sayin'. KAFFEE If you can't beat 'em, join 'em. LUTHER Hey, if you've got your health, you got everything. KAFFEE Love makes the world go round. I'll see you tomorrow, Luther. And we CUT TO: INT. SAM'S LIVING ROOM - NIGHT A baby sleeping in a crib pull rack to reveal SAM is standing over the crib. KAFFEE's sitting on a beer. SAM When Nancy gets back, you're my witness. The baby spoke. My daughter said a word. KAFFEE Your daughter made a sound, Sam, I'm not sure it was a word. SAM Oh come on, it was a word. KAFFEE Okay. SAM You heard her. The girl sat here, pointed, and said "Pa". She did. She said "Pa". KAFFEE She was pointing at a doorknob. SAM That's right. Pointing, as if to say, "Pa, look, a doorknob". SAM joins KAFFEE in the living room. KAFFEE Jack Ross came to see me today. He offered me twelve years. SAM That's what you wanted. KAFFEE I know, and I'll... I guess, I mean -- (beat) I'll take it. SAM So? KAFFEE It took albout 45 seconds. He barely put up a fight. SAM (beat) Danny, take the twelve years, it's a gift. KAFFEE finishes off his beer, and stands. KAFFEE You don't believe their story, do you? You think they ought to go to jail for the rest of their lives. SAM I believe every word they said. And I think they ought to go to jail for the rest of their lives. KAFFEE nods and puts down the empty beer bottle. KAFFEE I'll see you tomorrow. Sam opens the front door for him and they stand out on the stoop for a moment. SAM Remember to wear your whites, it's hot down there. KAFFEE I don't like the whites. SAM Nobody likes the whites, but we're going to Cuba in August. You got Dramamine? KAFFEE Dramamine keeps you cool? SAM Dramamine keeps you from throwing up, you get sick when you fly. KAFFEE I get sick when I fly because I'm afraid of crashing into a large mountain, I don't think Dramamine'll help. SAM I've got some oregano, I hear that works pretty good. KAFFEE Yeah, right. KAFFEE starts toward his car, then turns around. KAFFEE (continuing) You know, Ross said the strangest thing to me right before I left. He said the platoon commander Lieutenant Jonathan Kendrick had a meeting with the men and specifically told them not to touch Santiago. SAM So? KAFFEE I never mentioned Kendrick. I don't even know who he is. (beat) What the hell. (beat) I'll see you tomorrow. We hold for a moment on KAFFEE as he walks to his car, then CUT TO: EXT. THE AIRSTRIP AT GUANTANAMO BAY - DAY The whole place, in stark contrast to the Washington Navy Yard, is ready to go to war. Fighter jets line the tarmac. Ground crews re-fuel planes. Hurried activity. A 36 seat Airforce Jet rolls to a stop on the tarmac and a stair unit is brought up. HOWARD, a marine corporal, is waiting by the stairway as the passengers begin to got off. Mostly MARINES, a few SAILORS, a couple of CIVILIANS, and KAFFEE, JO and SAM. KAFFEE and SAM are wearing their summer whites, JO is in khakis. KAFFEE and SAM stare out at what they see: They're not in Kansas anymore. HOWARD shouts over the noise from the planes. HOWARD Lieutenants Kaffee and Weinberg? KAFFEE (shouting) Yeah. JO Commander Galloway. HOWARD I'm Corporal Howard, ma'am, I'm to escort you to the Windward side of the base. JO Thank you. HOWARD I've got some camouflage jackets in the back of the jeep, sirs, I'll have to ask you both to put them on. KAFFEE Camouflage jackets? HOWARD Regulations, sir. We'll be riding pretty close to the fenceline. The Cubans see an officer wearing white, they think it's someone they might wanna take a shot at. KAFFEE turns and glares at SAM. KAFFEE Good call, Sam. CUT TO: EXT. CUBAN ROAD - THE JEEP - DAY Tearing along down the road, and now we see a beautiful expanse of water, maybe 1000 yards across. It's a section of Guantanamo Bay. HOWARD (shouting) We'll just hop on the ferry and be over there in no time. KAFFEE (shouting) Whoa! Hold it! We gotta take a boat?! HOWARD Yes sir, to get to the other side of the bay. KAFFEE Nobody said anything about a boat. HOWARD (shouting) Is there a problem, sir? KAFFEE (shouting) No. No problem. I'm just not that crazy about boats, that's all. JO (shouting) Jesus Christ, Kaffee, you're in the Navy for cryin' out loud! KAFFEE (shouting) Nobody likes her very much. HOWARD (shouting) Yes sir. The jeep drives on and we CUT TO: JESSEP, MARKINSON and KENDRICK are standing as the LAWYERS are led in. JESSEP Nathan Jessep, come on in and siddown. KAFFEE Thank you. I'm Daniel Kaffee, I'm the attorney for Dawson and Downey. This is Joanne Galloway, she's observing and evaluating -- JO (shaking hands) Colonel. JESSEP Pleased to meet you, Commander. KAFFEE Sam Weinberg. He has no responsibility here whatsoever. JESSEP I've asked Captain Markinson and Lt. Kendrick to join us. MARKINSON Lt. Kaffee, I had the pleasure of seeing your father once. I was a teenager and he spoke at my high school. KAFFEE smiles and nods. JESSEP Lionel Kaffee? KAFFEE Yes sir. JESSEP Well what do you know. Son, this man's dad once made a lot of enemies down in your neck of the woods. Jefferson vs. Madison County School District. The folks down there said a little black girl couldn't go to an all white school, Lionel Kaffee said we'll just see about that. How the hell is your dad? KAFFEE He passed away seven years ago, colonel. JESSEP (pause) Well... don't I feel like the fuckin, asshole. KAFFEE Not at all, sir. JESSEP Well, what can we do for you, Danny. KAFFEE Not much at all, sir, I'm afraid. This is really a formality more than anything else. The JAG Corps insists that I interview all the relevant witnesses. JO The JAG Corps can be demanding that way. JESSEP smiles. JESSEP Jonanthan'll take you out and show you what you wanna see, then we can all hook up for lunch, how does that sound? KAFFEE Fine, sir. CUT TO: EXT. THE FENCELINE - DAY A SQUAD OF MARINES jogs by as a jeep carrying KENDRICK and the three LAWYERS cruises down the road. We FOLLOW the jeep. KAFFEE I understand you had a meeting with your men that afternoon. KENDRICK Yes. KAFFEE What'd you guys talk about? KENDRICK I told the men that there was an informer among us. And that despite any desire they might have to seek retribution, Private Santiago was not to be harmed in any way. KAFFEE What time was that meeting? KENDRICK Sixteen-hundred. KAFFEE turns around and looks at SAM. SAM (leaning forward) Four o'clock. CUT TO: INT. THE BARRACKS CORRIDOR - DAY KENDRICK leads the LAWYERS down the corridor to Santiago's room. Two strips of tape which warn DO NOT ENTER - AT ORDER OF THE MILITARY POLICE are crisscrossed over the closed door. They open the door and step under the tape and walk into INT. SANTIAGO'S ROOM - DAY The room is exactly an it was left that night. The un-made bed, the chair knocked over... The LAWYERS look around for a moment. The room is sparse. Kaffee goes to the closet and opens it: A row of uniforms hanging neatly. He thumbs through then for a second, but there's nothing there. He opens the footlocker: Socks, underwear... all folded to marine corp precision... A shaving kit, a couple of photographs, a pad of writing paper and some envelopes... Kaffee closes the footlocker. KAFFEE Sam, somebody should see about getting this stuff to his parents. We don't need it anymore. KENDRICK Actually, the uniforms belong to the marine corps. The LAWYERS take a moment. KAFFEE Lt. Kendrick -- can I call you Jon? KENDRICK No, you may not. KAFFEE (beat) Have I done something to offend you? KENDRICK No, I like all you Navy boys. Every time we've gotta go someplace and fight, you fellas always give us a ride. JO Lt. Kendrick, do you think Santiago was murdered? KENDRICK Commander, I believe in God, and in his son Jesus Christ, and because I do, I can say this: Private Santiago is dead and that's a tragedy. But he's dead because he had no code. He's dead because he had no honor. And God was watching. SAM turns to KAFFEE. SAM How do you feel about that theory? KAFFEE (beat) Sounds good. Let's move on. SAM and KENDRICK walk out the door. JO stops KAFFEE. JO You planning on doing any investigating or are you just gonna take the guided tour? KAFFEE (beat) I'm pacing myself. CUT TO: INT. THE OFFICERS CLUB - DAY JESSEP, MARKINSON, KENDRICK and the LAWYERS are seated at a table in the corner. Stewards clear the lunch dishes and pour coffee. Jessep is finishing a story. JESSEP ...And they spent the next three hours running around, looking for Americans to surrender to. JESSEP laughs. KENDRICK joins him. SAM and KAFFEE force a laugh. MARKINSON forces a smile. JO remains silent. JESSEP (continuing; to the STEWARDS) That was delicious, men, thank you. STEWARD Our pleasure, sir. KAFFEE Colonel just need to ask you a couple of questions about August 6th. JESSEP Shoot. KAFFEE On the morning of the sixth, you were contacted by an NIS angent who said that Santiago had tipped him off to an illegal fenceline shooting. JESSEP Yes. KAFFEE Santiago was gonna reveal the person's name in exchange for a transfer. An I getting this right? JESSEP Yes. KAFFEE If you feel there are any details that I'm missing, you should free to speak up. JESSEP's not quite sure what to say to this Navy Lawyer Lieutenant-Smartass guy who just gave him permission to speak freely on his own base. JESSEP Thank you. KAFFEE Now it was at this point that you called Captain Markinson and Lt. Kendrick into your office? JESSEP Yes. KAFFEE And what happened then? JESSEP We agreed that for his own safety, Santiago should be transferred off the base. Here's something else KAFFEE didn't know. Neither did Jo. SAM jots something down on a small notepad. MARKINSON doesn't flinch. KAFFEE Santiago was set to be transferred? JESSEP On the first available flight to the states. Six the next morning. Three hours too late as it turned out. KAFFEE nods. KAFFEE Yeah. There's silence for a moment. KAFFEE takes a sip of his coffee. Then drains the cup and puts it down. KAFFEE (continuing) Alright, that's all I have. Thanks very much for your time. KENDRICK The corporal's got the jeep outside, he'll take you back to the airstrip. KAFFEE (standing) Thank you. JO Wait a minute, I've got some questions. KAFFEE No you don't. JO Yes I do. KAFFEE No you don't. JO Colonel, on the morning that Santiago died, did you meet with Doctor Stone between three and five? KAFFEE Jo -- JESSEP Of course I met with the doctor. One of my men was dead. KAFFEE (to JO) See? The man was dead. Let's go. JO (to JESSEP) I was wondering if you've ever heard the term Code Red. KAFFEE Jo -- JESSEP I've heard the term, yes. JO Colonel, this past February, you received a cautionary memo from the Naval Investigative Service, warning that the practice of enlisted men disciplining their own wasn't to be condoned by officers. JESSEP I submit to you that whoever wrote that memo has never served on the working end of a Soviet-made Cuban Ml-Al6 Assault Rifle. However, the directive having come from the NIS, I gave it its due attention. What's your point, Jo? KAFFEE She has no point. She often has no point. It's part of her charm. We're outta here. Thank you. JO My point is that I think code reds still go on down here. Do Code Reds still happen on this base, colonel? KAFFEE Jo, the colonel doesn't need to answer that. JO Yes he does. KAFFEE No, he really doesn't. JO Yeah, he really does. Colonel? JESSEP You know it just hit me. She outranks you, Danny. KAFFEE Yes sir. JESSEP I want to tell you something Danny and listen up 'cause I mean this: You're the luckiest man in the world. There is, believe me gentlemen, nothing sexier on earth than a woman you have to salute in the morning. Promote 'em all I say. JO's not upset. JO's not mad. But she's gonna ask her question 'til she gets an answer. JO Colonel, the practice of code Reds is still condoned by officers on this base, isn't it? JESSEP You see my problem is, of course, that I'm a Colonel. I'll just have to keep taking cold showers 'til they elect some gal President. JO I need an answer to my question, sir. JESSEP Take caution in your tone, Commander. I'm a fair guy, but this fuckin' heat's making me absolutely crazy. You want to know about code reds? On the record I tell you that I discourage the practice in accordance with the NIS directive. Off the record I tell you that it's an invaluable part of close infantry training, and if it happens to go on without my knowledge, so be it. I run my base how I run my base. You want to investigate me, roll the dice and take your chances. I eat breakfast 80 yards away from 4000 Cubans who are trained to kill me. So don't for one second think you're gonna come down here, flash a badge, and make me nervous. A moment of tense silence before -- KAFFEE Let's go. Colonel, I'll just need a copy of Santiago's transfer order. JESSEP What's that? KAFFEE Santiago's transfer order. You guys have paper work on that kind of thing, I just need it for the file. JESSEP For the file. KAFFEE Yeah. JESSEP (pause) Of course you can have a copy of the transfer order. For the file. I'm here to help anyway I can. KAFFEE Thank you. JESSEP You believe that, don't you? Danny? That I'm here to help anyway I can? KAFFEE Of course. JESSEP The corporal'll run you by Ordinance on your way out to the airstrip. You can have all the transfer orders you want. KAFFEE (to JO and SAM) Let's go. The LAWYERS start to leave. JESSEP But you have to ask me nicely. KAFFEE stops. Turns around. Sam and JO stop and turn. KAFFEE I beg your pardon? JESSEP You have to ask me nicely. You see, Danny, I can deal with the bullets and the bombs and the blood. I can deal with the heat and the stress and the fear. I don't want money and I don't want medals. What I want is for you to stand there in that faggoty white uniform, and with your Harvard mouth, extend me some fuckin' courtesy. You gotta ask me nicely. KAFFEE and JESSEP are frozen. Everyone'staring at Kaffee; The OFFICERS at their tables... KENDRICK... SAM... MARKINSON... JO... KAFFEE makes his decision. KAFFEE Colonel Jessep... if it's not too much trouble, I'd like a copy of the transfer order. Sir. JESSEP smiles. JESSEP No problem. HOLD for a moment. JO's very disappointed. JESSEP stands there and watches the LAWYERS as they turn and leave the Officer's Club. JESSEP (continuing) I hate casualties, Matthew. There are casualties even in victory. A marine smothers a grenade and saves his platoon, that marine's a hero. The foundation of the unit, the fabric of this base, the spirit of the Corps, they are things worth fighting for. MARKINSON looks at the ground. JESSEP (continuing) Dawson and Downey, they don't know it, but they're smothering a grenade. MARKINSON looks up as we CUT TO: EXT. ANDREWS AIRFORCE BASE - DUSK As a plane touches down on the runway. It's dusk in Washington and CUT TO: EXT. KAFFEE'S APARTMENT - DAY A little one-bedroom. Just the essential furniture, barely even that. KAFFEE's sitting and watching a baseball came on t.v. He's holding a copy of The Baseball Encyclopedia, normally his favorite reading material, but right now he's having trouble keeping his mind in it. He's holding a baseball bat and fiddling with it. The remnants of a pizza and Yoo-Hoo dinner sit next to him. His white uniform in a pile in the corner. There's a BUZZ at the door. KAFFEE's not expecting anyone. He goes to the door. KAFFEE Who is it? JO (O.S.) It's me. KAFFEE opens the door and JO walks in. KAFFEE I've really missed you, Jo. I was just saying to myself, "It's been almost three hours since I last saw -- " JO Markinson resigned his commission. KAFFEE (pause) When? JO This afternoon. Sometime after we left. KAFFEE I'll talk to him in the morning. JO I already tried, I can't find him. KAFFEE You tried? Joanne, you're coming dangerously close to the textbook definition of interfering with a government investigation. JO hands KAFFEE the file she's been holding. JO I'm Louden Downey's attorney. KAFFEE's stunned. He opens the file and begins to read. JO (continuing) Aunt Ginny. She said she feels like she's known me for years. I suggested that she might feel more comfortable if I were directly involved with the case. She had Louden sign the papers about an hour ago. KAFFEE looks up. Still too stunned to say anything. Then finally... KAFFEE I suppose it's way too much to hope that you're just making this up to bother me. JO Don't worry, I'm not gonna make a motion for separation, you're still lead counsel. KAFFEE hands her back the file. KAFFEE Splendid. JO I think Kendrick ordered the Code Red. (beat) So do you. CUT TO: INT. A HOLDING ROOM IN THE BRIG - NIGHT DAWSON and DOWNEY come to attention as KAFFEE and JO are led in. DAWSON Officer on deck, ten hut. KAFFEE starts in immediately. KAFFEE Did Kendrick order the code red? DAWSON Sir? KAFFEE Don't say sir like I just asked you if you cleaned the latrine. You heard what I said. Did Lt. Kendrick order you guys to give Santiago a code red? DAWSON Yes sir. KAFFEE (to Downey) Did he? DOWNEY Yes sir. KAFFEE You mind telling me why the hell you never mentioned this before? DAWSON You didn't ask us, sir. KAFFEE Cutie-pie shit's not gonna win you a place in my heart, corporal, I get paid no matter how much time you spend in jail. DAWSON Yes

tape

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

was damn funny. Jo moves close to KAFFEE to say this with a degree of confidentiality. JO I do know you. Daniel AlliStair Kaffee, born June 8th, 1964 at Boston Mercy Hospital. Your father's Lionel Kaffee, former Navy Judge Advocate and Attorney General, of the United States, died 1985. You went to Harvard Law on a Navy scholarship, probably because that's what your father wanted you to do, and now you're just treading water for the three years you've gotta serve in the JAG Corps, just kinda layin' low til you can get out and get a real job. And if that's the situation, that's fine, I won't tell anyone. But my feeling is that if this case is handled in the same fast-food, slick-ass, Persian Bazaar manner with which you seem to handle everything else, something's gonna get missed. And I wouldn't be doing my job if I allowed Dawson and Downey to spend any more time in prison than absolutely necessary, because their attorney had pre- determined the path of least resistance. KAFFEE can't help but be impressed by that speech. KAFFEE Wow. (beat) I'm sexually aroused, Commander. JO I don't think your clients murdered anybody. KAFFEE What are you basing this on? JO There was no intent. KAFFEE The doctor's report says that Santiago died of asphyxiation brought on by acute lactic acidosis, and that the nature of the acidosis strongly suggests poisoning. (beat) Now, I don't know what any of that means, but it sounds pretty bad. JO Santiago died at one a.m. At three the doctor was unable to determine the cause of death, but two hours later he said it was poison. KAFFEE Oh, now I see what you're saying. It had to be Professor Plum in the library with the candlestick. JO I'm gonna speak to your supervisor. KAFFEE Okay. You go straight up Pennsylvania Avenue. It's a big white house with pillars in front. JO Thank you. KAFFEE I don't think you'll have much luck, though. I was assigned by Division, remember? Somebody over there thinks I'm a good lawyer. So while I appreciate your interest and admire your enthusiasm, I think I can pretty much handle things myself. JO Do you know what a code red is? KAFFEE doesn't, but he doesn't say anything. JO (continuing) What a pity. CUT TO: INT. THE BRIG - DAY And an M.P. is leading KAFFEE and SAM down to DAWSON and DOWNEY's cell. M.P. Officer on deck, ten-hut. DAWSON and DOWNEY come to attention. Through the following, the M.P. will unlock the call door and let the lawyers in. DAWSON Sir, Lance Corporal Harold W. Dawson, sir. Rifle Security Company Windward, Second Platoon, Delta. KAFFEE Someone hasn't been working and playing well with others, Harold. DAWSON Sir, yes sir! DOWNEY Sir, PFC Louden Downey. KAFFEE I'm Daniel Kaffee, this is Sam Weinerg, you can sitdown. DAWSON and DOWNEY aren't too comfortable sitting in the presence of officers, but they do as they're told. KAFFEE's pulled out some documents, SAM's sitting on one of the cots taking notes. KAFFEE (continuing; to DAWSON) Is this your signature? DAWSON Yes sir. KAFFEE You don't have to call me sir. (to DOWNEY) Is this your signature? DOWNEY Sir, yes sir. KAFFEE And you certainly don't have to do it twice in one sentence. Harold, what's a Code Red? DAWSON Sir, a Code Red is a disciplinary engagement. KAFFEE What does that mean, exactly? DAWSON Sir, a marine falls out of line, it's up to the men in his unit to get him back on track. KAFFEE What's a garden variety Code Red? DAWSON Sir? KAFFEE Harold, you say sir and I turn around and look for my father. Danny, Daniel, Kaffee. Garden variety; typical. What's a basic Code Red? DAWSON Sir, a marine has refused to bathe on a regular basis. The men in his squad would give him a G.I. shower. KAFFEE What's that? DAWSON Scrub brushes, brillo pads, steel wool... SAM Beautiful. KAFFEE Was the attack on Santiago a Code Red? DAWSON Yes sir. KAFFEE (to DOWNEY) Do you ever talk? DAWSON Sir, Private Downey will answer any direct questions you ask him. KAFFEE Swell. Private Downey, the rag you stuffed in Santiago's mouth, was there poison on it? DOWNEY No sir. KAFFEE Silver polish, turpentine, anti- freeze... DOWNEY No sir. We were gonna shave his head, sir. KAFFEE When all of a sudden...? DOWNEY We saw blood drippinq out of his mouth. Then we pulled the tape off, and there was blood all down his face, sir. That's when Corporal Dawson called the ambulance. KAFFEE tries not to make too big a deal out of this last piece of news. KAFFEE (to DAWSON) Did anyone see you call the ambulance? DAWSON No sir. KAFFEE Were you there when the ambulance got there? DAWSON Yes sir, that's when we were taken under arrest. KAFFEE kinda strolls to the corner of the cell to think for a moment. SAM (to DAWSON) On the night of August 2nd, did you fire a shot across the fenceline into Cuba? DAWSON Yes sir. SAM Why? DAWSON My mirror engaged, sir. KAFFEE (to SAM) His mirror engaged? SAM For each American sentry post there's a Cuban counterpart. They're called mirrors. The corporal's claiming that his mirror was about to fire at him. KAFFEE Santiago's letter to the NIS said you fired illegally. He's saying that the guy, the mirror, he never made a move. DAWSON says nothing. KAFFEE (continuing) Oh, Harold? SAM is staring at DAWSON. KAFFEE (continuing) You see what I'm getting at? If Santiago didn't have anything on you, then why did you give him a Code Red? DAWSON Because he broke the chain of command, sir. KAFFEE He what? DAWSON He went outside his unit, sir. If he had a problem, he should've spoken to me, sir. Then his Sergeant, then Company Commander, then -- KAFFEE Yeah, yeah, alright. Harold, did you assault Santiago with the intent of killing him? DAWSON No sir. KAFFEE What was your intent? DAWSON To train him, sir. KAFFEE Train him to do what? DAWSON Train him to think of his unit before himself. To respect the code. SAM What's the code? DAWSON Unit Corps God Country. SAM I beg your pardon? DAWSON Unit Corps God Country, sir. KAFFEE The Goverrment of the United States wants to charge you two with murder. You want me to go to the prosecutor with unit, corps, god, country? DAWSON stares at KAFFEE. DAWSON That's our code, sir. KAFFEE takes a long moment. He picks up his briefcase and he and SAM move to the door. KAFFEE We'll be back. You guys need anything? Books paper, cigarettes, a ham sandwich? DAWSON Sir. No thank you. Sir. KAFFEE smiles at DAWSON. KAFFEE Harold, I think there's a concept you better start warming up to. DAWSON Sir? KAFFEE I'm the only friend you've got. And as KAFFEE and SAM walk out the open cell door, DAWSON and DOWNEY come to attention and snap a salute. They hold the salute until KAFFEE and SAM are well out of sight, and we CUT TO: INT. KAFFEE'S OFFICE - DAY He's packing up stuff into his briefcase at the end of the work day. Lt. JACK ROSS, a marine lawyer maybe two years older than Kaffee, opens the door and walks in.. ROSS Dan Kaffee. KAFFEE Sailin' Jack Ross. ROSS Welcome to the big time. KAFFEE You think so? ROSS I hope for Dawson and Downey's sake you practice law better than you play softball. KAFFEE Unfortunately for Dawson and Downey, I don't do anything better than I play softball. What are we lookin' at? ROSS They plead guilty to manslaughter, I'll drop the conspiracy and the conduct unbecoming. 20 years, they'll be home in half that time. KAFFEE I want twelve. ROSS Can't do it. KAFFEE They called the ambulance, Jack. ROSS I don't care if they called the Avon Lady, they killed a marine. KAFFEE The rag was tested for poison. The autopsy, lab report, even the initial E.R. and C.O.D. reports. They all say the same thing: Maybe, maybe not. ROSS The Chief of Internal Medicine at the Guantanamo Bay Naval hospital says he's sure. KAFFEE What do you know about Code Reds? ROSS smiles and shakes his head. ROSS Oh man. He closes the office door. ROSS (continuing) Are we off the record? KAFFEE You tell me. ROSS (pause) I'm gonna give you the twelve years, but before you go getting yourself into trouble tomorrow, you should know this: The platoon commander Lt. Jonathan Kendrick, had a meeting with the men. And he specifically told them not to touch Santiago. KAFFEE holds for a moment. Dawson and Downey neglected to mention this... He packs up his briefcase and cleats. KAFFEE I'll talk to you when I get back. ROSS Hey, we got a little four-on-four going tomorrow night. When does your plane get in? CUT TO: EXT. THE PARKING LOT - DUSK It's dusk and people on the base are going home from work. We can see the flag being lowered in the background. KAFFEE's walking toward his car. JO intercepts him and starts walking along with him. JO Hi there. KAFFEE Any luck getting me replaced? JO Is there anyone in this command that you don't either drink or play softball with? KAFFEE Commander -- JO Listen, I came to make peace. We started off on the wrong foot. What do you say? Friends? KAFFEE Look, I don't -- JO By the way, I brought Downey some comic books he was asking for. The kid, Kaffee, I swear, he doesn't know where he is, he doesn't even know why he's been arrested. KAFFEE Commander -- JO You can call me Joanne. KAFFEE Joanne -- JO or Jo. KAFFEE Jo? JO Yes. KAFFEE Jo, if you ever speak to a client of mine again without my permission, I'll have you disbarred. Friends? JO I had authorization. KAFFEE From where? JO Downey's closest living relative, Ginny Miller, his aunt on his mother's side. KAFFEE You got authorization from Aunt Ginny? JO I gave her a call like you asked. Very nice woman, we talked for about an hour. KAFFEE You got authorization from Aunt Ginny. JO Perfectly within my province. KAFFEE Does Aunt Ginny have a barn? We can hold the trial there. I can sew the costumes, and maybe his Uncle Goober can be the judge. Jo steps aside and lets KAFFEE got into his car. JO I'm going to Cuba with you tomorrow. KAFFEE And the hits just keep on comin'. HOLD on KAFFEE and Jo. JO smiles. CUT TO: EXT. SIDEWALK NEWSSTAND - DUSK KAFFEE IN HIS CAR He's driving down a Washington street and pulls over at a sidewalk newsstand. He gets out of his car, leaving the lights flashing, and runs up to the newsstand. As he plunks his 35 cents down and picks up a newspaper, he engages in his daily ritual with LUTHER, the newsstand operator. KAFFEE How's it goin', Luther? LUTHER Another day, another dollar, captain. KAFFEE You gotta play 'em as they lay, Luther. LUTHER What comes around, goes around, you know what I'm sayin'. KAFFEE If you can't beat 'em, join 'em. LUTHER Hey, if you've got your health, you got everything. KAFFEE Love makes the world go round. I'll see you tomorrow, Luther. And we CUT TO: INT. SAM'S LIVING ROOM - NIGHT A baby sleeping in a crib pull rack to reveal SAM is standing over the crib. KAFFEE's sitting on a beer. SAM When Nancy gets back, you're my witness. The baby spoke. My daughter said a word. KAFFEE Your daughter made a sound, Sam, I'm not sure it was a word. SAM Oh come on, it was a word. KAFFEE Okay. SAM You heard her. The girl sat here, pointed, and said "Pa". She did. She said "Pa". KAFFEE She was pointing at a doorknob. SAM That's right. Pointing, as if to say, "Pa, look, a doorknob". SAM joins KAFFEE in the living room. KAFFEE Jack Ross came to see me today. He offered me twelve years. SAM That's what you wanted. KAFFEE I know, and I'll... I guess, I mean -- (beat) I'll take it. SAM So? KAFFEE It took albout 45 seconds. He barely put up a fight. SAM (beat) Danny, take the twelve years, it's a gift. KAFFEE finishes off his beer, and stands. KAFFEE You don't believe their story, do you? You think they ought to go to jail for the rest of their lives. SAM I believe every word they said. And I think they ought to go to jail for the rest of their lives. KAFFEE nods and puts down the empty beer bottle. KAFFEE I'll see you tomorrow. Sam opens the front door for him and they stand out on the stoop for a moment. SAM Remember to wear your whites, it's hot down there. KAFFEE I don't like the whites. SAM Nobody likes the whites, but we're going to Cuba in August. You got Dramamine? KAFFEE Dramamine keeps you cool? SAM Dramamine keeps you from throwing up, you get sick when you fly. KAFFEE I get sick when I fly because I'm afraid of crashing into a large mountain, I don't think Dramamine'll help. SAM I've got some oregano, I hear that works pretty good. KAFFEE Yeah, right. KAFFEE starts toward his car, then turns around. KAFFEE (continuing) You know, Ross said the strangest thing to me right before I left. He said the platoon commander Lieutenant Jonathan Kendrick had a meeting with the men and specifically told them not to touch Santiago. SAM So? KAFFEE I never mentioned Kendrick. I don't even know who he is. (beat) What the hell. (beat) I'll see you tomorrow. We hold for a moment on KAFFEE as he walks to his car, then CUT TO: EXT. THE AIRSTRIP AT GUANTANAMO BAY - DAY The whole place, in stark contrast to the Washington Navy Yard, is ready to go to war. Fighter jets line the tarmac. Ground crews re-fuel planes. Hurried activity. A 36 seat Airforce Jet rolls to a stop on the tarmac and a stair unit is brought up. HOWARD, a marine corporal, is waiting by the stairway as the passengers begin to got off. Mostly MARINES, a few SAILORS, a couple of CIVILIANS, and KAFFEE, JO and SAM. KAFFEE and SAM are wearing their summer whites, JO is in khakis. KAFFEE and SAM stare out at what they see: They're not in Kansas anymore. HOWARD shouts over the noise from the planes. HOWARD Lieutenants Kaffee and Weinberg? KAFFEE (shouting) Yeah. JO Commander Galloway. HOWARD I'm Corporal Howard, ma'am, I'm to escort you to the Windward side of the base. JO Thank you. HOWARD I've got some camouflage jackets in the back of the jeep, sirs, I'll have to ask you both to put them on. KAFFEE Camouflage jackets? HOWARD Regulations, sir. We'll be riding pretty close to the fenceline. The Cubans see an officer wearing white, they think it's someone they might wanna take a shot at. KAFFEE turns and glares at SAM. KAFFEE Good call, Sam. CUT TO: EXT. CUBAN ROAD - THE JEEP - DAY Tearing along down the road, and now we see a beautiful expanse of water, maybe 1000 yards across. It's a section of Guantanamo Bay. HOWARD (shouting) We'll just hop on the ferry and be over there in no time. KAFFEE (shouting) Whoa! Hold it! We gotta take a boat?! HOWARD Yes sir, to get to the other side of the bay. KAFFEE Nobody said anything about a boat. HOWARD (shouting) Is there a problem, sir? KAFFEE (shouting) No. No problem. I'm just not that crazy about boats, that's all. JO (shouting) Jesus Christ, Kaffee, you're in the Navy for cryin' out loud! KAFFEE (shouting) Nobody likes her very much. HOWARD (shouting) Yes sir. The jeep drives on and we CUT TO: JESSEP, MARKINSON and KENDRICK are standing as the LAWYERS are led in. JESSEP Nathan Jessep, come on in and siddown. KAFFEE Thank you. I'm Daniel Kaffee, I'm the attorney for Dawson and Downey. This is Joanne Galloway, she's observing and evaluating -- JO (shaking hands) Colonel. JESSEP Pleased to meet you, Commander. KAFFEE Sam Weinberg. He has no responsibility here whatsoever. JESSEP I've asked Captain Markinson and Lt. Kendrick to join us. MARKINSON Lt. Kaffee, I had the pleasure of seeing your father once. I was a teenager and he spoke at my high school. KAFFEE smiles and nods. JESSEP Lionel Kaffee? KAFFEE Yes sir. JESSEP Well what do you know. Son, this man's dad once made a lot of enemies down in your neck of the woods. Jefferson vs. Madison County School District. The folks down there said a little black girl couldn't go to an all white school, Lionel Kaffee said we'll just see about that. How the hell is your dad? KAFFEE He passed away seven years ago, colonel. JESSEP (pause) Well... don't I feel like the fuckin, asshole. KAFFEE Not at all, sir. JESSEP Well, what can we do for you, Danny. KAFFEE Not much at all, sir, I'm afraid. This is really a formality more than anything else. The JAG Corps insists that I interview all the relevant witnesses. JO The JAG Corps can be demanding that way. JESSEP smiles. JESSEP Jonanthan'll take you out and show you what you wanna see, then we can all hook up for lunch, how does that sound? KAFFEE Fine, sir. CUT TO: EXT. THE FENCELINE - DAY A SQUAD OF MARINES jogs by as a jeep carrying KENDRICK and the three LAWYERS cruises down the road. We FOLLOW the jeep. KAFFEE I understand you had a meeting with your men that afternoon. KENDRICK Yes. KAFFEE What'd you guys talk about? KENDRICK I told the men that there was an informer among us. And that despite any desire they might have to seek retribution, Private Santiago was not to be harmed in any way. KAFFEE What time was that meeting? KENDRICK Sixteen-hundred. KAFFEE turns around and looks at SAM. SAM (leaning forward) Four o'clock. CUT TO: INT. THE BARRACKS CORRIDOR - DAY KENDRICK leads the LAWYERS down the corridor to Santiago's room. Two strips of tape which warn DO NOT ENTER - AT ORDER OF THE MILITARY POLICE are crisscrossed over the closed door. They open the door and step under the tape and walk into INT. SANTIAGO'S ROOM - DAY The room is exactly an it was left that night. The un-made bed, the chair knocked over... The LAWYERS look around for a moment. The room is sparse. Kaffee goes to the closet and opens it: A row of uniforms hanging neatly. He thumbs through then for a second, but there's nothing there. He opens the footlocker: Socks, underwear... all folded to marine corp precision... A shaving kit, a couple of photographs, a pad of writing paper and some envelopes... Kaffee closes the footlocker. KAFFEE Sam, somebody should see about getting this stuff to his parents. We don't need it anymore. KENDRICK Actually, the uniforms belong to the marine corps. The LAWYERS take a moment. KAFFEE Lt. Kendrick -- can I call you Jon? KENDRICK No, you may not. KAFFEE (beat) Have I done something to offend you? KENDRICK No, I like all you Navy boys. Every time we've gotta go someplace and fight, you fellas always give us a ride. JO Lt. Kendrick, do you think Santiago was murdered? KENDRICK Commander, I believe in God, and in his son Jesus Christ, and because I do, I can say this: Private Santiago is dead and that's a tragedy. But he's dead because he had no code. He's dead because he had no honor. And God was watching. SAM turns to KAFFEE. SAM How do you feel about that theory? KAFFEE (beat) Sounds good. Let's move on. SAM and KENDRICK walk out the door. JO stops KAFFEE. JO You planning on doing any investigating or are you just gonna take the guided tour? KAFFEE (beat) I'm pacing myself. CUT TO: INT. THE OFFICERS CLUB - DAY JESSEP, MARKINSON, KENDRICK and the LAWYERS are seated at a table in the corner. Stewards clear the lunch dishes and pour coffee. Jessep is finishing a story. JESSEP ...And they spent the next three hours running around, looking for Americans to surrender to. JESSEP laughs. KENDRICK joins him. SAM and KAFFEE force a laugh. MARKINSON forces a smile. JO remains silent. JESSEP (continuing; to the STEWARDS) That was delicious, men, thank you. STEWARD Our pleasure, sir. KAFFEE Colonel just need to ask you a couple of questions about August 6th. JESSEP Shoot. KAFFEE On the morning of the sixth, you were contacted by an NIS angent who said that Santiago had tipped him off to an illegal fenceline shooting. JESSEP Yes. KAFFEE Santiago was gonna reveal the person's name in exchange for a transfer. An I getting this right? JESSEP Yes. KAFFEE If you feel there are any details that I'm missing, you should free to speak up. JESSEP's not quite sure what to say to this Navy Lawyer Lieutenant-Smartass guy who just gave him permission to speak freely on his own base. JESSEP Thank you. KAFFEE Now it was at this point that you called Captain Markinson and Lt. Kendrick into your office? JESSEP Yes. KAFFEE And what happened then? JESSEP We agreed that for his own safety, Santiago should be transferred off the base. Here's something else KAFFEE didn't know. Neither did Jo. SAM jots something down on a small notepad. MARKINSON doesn't flinch. KAFFEE Santiago was set to be transferred? JESSEP On the first available flight to the states. Six the next morning. Three hours too late as it turned out. KAFFEE nods. KAFFEE Yeah. There's silence for a moment. KAFFEE takes a sip of his coffee. Then drains the cup and puts it down. KAFFEE (continuing) Alright, that's all I have. Thanks very much for your time. KENDRICK The corporal's got the jeep outside, he'll take you back to the airstrip. KAFFEE (standing) Thank you. JO Wait a minute, I've got some questions. KAFFEE No you don't. JO Yes I do. KAFFEE No you don't. JO Colonel, on the morning that Santiago died, did you meet with Doctor Stone between three and five? KAFFEE Jo -- JESSEP Of course I met with the doctor. One of my men was dead. KAFFEE (to JO) See? The man was dead. Let's go. JO (to JESSEP) I was wondering if you've ever heard the term Code Red. KAFFEE Jo -- JESSEP I've heard the term, yes. JO Colonel, this past February, you received a cautionary memo from the Naval Investigative Service, warning that the practice of enlisted men disciplining their own wasn't to be condoned by officers. JESSEP I submit to you that whoever wrote that memo has never served on the working end of a Soviet-made Cuban Ml-Al6 Assault Rifle. However, the directive having come from the NIS, I gave it its due attention. What's your point, Jo? KAFFEE She has no point. She often has no point. It's part of her charm. We're outta here. Thank you. JO My point is that I think code reds still go on down here. Do Code Reds still happen on this base, colonel? KAFFEE Jo, the colonel doesn't need to answer that. JO Yes he does. KAFFEE No, he really doesn't. JO Yeah, he really does. Colonel? JESSEP You know it just hit me. She outranks you, Danny. KAFFEE Yes sir. JESSEP I want to tell you something Danny and listen up 'cause I mean this: You're the luckiest man in the world. There is, believe me gentlemen, nothing sexier on earth than a woman you have to salute in the morning. Promote 'em all I say. JO's not upset. JO's not mad. But she's gonna ask her question 'til she gets an answer. JO Colonel, the practice of code Reds is still condoned by officers on this base, isn't it? JESSEP You see my problem is, of course, that I'm a Colonel. I'll just have to keep taking cold showers 'til they elect some gal President. JO I need an answer to my question, sir. JESSEP Take caution in your tone, Commander. I'm a fair guy, but this fuckin' heat's making me absolutely crazy. You want to know about code reds? On the record I tell you that I discourage the practice in accordance with the NIS directive. Off the record I tell you that it's an invaluable part of close infantry training, and if it happens to go on without my knowledge, so be it. I run my base how I run my base. You want to investigate me, roll the dice and take your chances. I eat breakfast 80 yards away from 4000 Cubans who are trained to kill me. So don't for one second think you're gonna come down here, flash a badge, and make me nervous. A moment of tense silence before -- KAFFEE Let's go. Colonel, I'll just need a copy of Santiago's transfer order. JESSEP What's that? KAFFEE Santiago's transfer order. You guys have paper work on that kind of thing, I just need it for the file. JESSEP For the file. KAFFEE Yeah. JESSEP (pause) Of course you can have a copy of the transfer order. For the file. I'm here to help anyway I can. KAFFEE Thank you. JESSEP You believe that, don't you? Danny? That I'm here to help anyway I can? KAFFEE Of course. JESSEP The corporal'll run you by Ordinance on your way out to the airstrip. You can have all the transfer orders you want. KAFFEE (to JO and SAM) Let's go. The LAWYERS start to leave. JESSEP But you have to ask me nicely. KAFFEE stops. Turns around. Sam and JO stop and turn. KAFFEE I beg your pardon? JESSEP You have to ask me nicely. You see, Danny, I can deal with the bullets and the bombs and the blood. I can deal with the heat and the stress and the fear. I don't want money and I don't want medals. What I want is for you to stand there in that faggoty white uniform, and with your Harvard mouth, extend me some fuckin' courtesy. You gotta ask me nicely. KAFFEE and JESSEP are frozen. Everyone'staring at Kaffee; The OFFICERS at their tables... KENDRICK... SAM... MARKINSON... JO... KAFFEE makes his decision. KAFFEE Colonel Jessep... if it's not too much trouble, I'd like a copy of the transfer order. Sir. JESSEP smiles. JESSEP No problem. HOLD for a moment. JO's very disappointed. JESSEP stands there and watches the LAWYERS as they turn and leave the Officer's Club. JESSEP (continuing) I hate casualties, Matthew. There are casualties even in victory. A marine smothers a grenade and saves his platoon, that marine's a hero. The foundation of the unit, the fabric of this base, the spirit of the Corps, they are things worth fighting for. MARKINSON looks at the ground. JESSEP (continuing) Dawson and Downey, they don't know it, but they're smothering a grenade. MARKINSON looks up as we CUT TO: EXT. ANDREWS AIRFORCE BASE - DUSK As a plane touches down on the runway. It's dusk in Washington and CUT TO: EXT. KAFFEE'S APARTMENT - DAY A little one-bedroom. Just the essential furniture, barely even that. KAFFEE's sitting and watching a baseball came on t.v. He's holding a copy of The Baseball Encyclopedia, normally his favorite reading material, but right now he's having trouble keeping his mind in it. He's holding a baseball bat and fiddling with it. The remnants of a pizza and Yoo-Hoo dinner sit next to him. His white uniform in a pile in the corner. There's a BUZZ at the door. KAFFEE's not expecting anyone. He goes to the door. KAFFEE Who is it? JO (O.S.) It's me. KAFFEE opens the door and JO walks in. KAFFEE I've really missed you, Jo. I was just saying to myself, "It's been almost three hours since I last saw -- " JO Markinson resigned his commission. KAFFEE (pause) When? JO This afternoon. Sometime after we left. KAFFEE I'll talk to him in the morning. JO I already tried, I can't find him. KAFFEE You tried? Joanne, you're coming dangerously close to the textbook definition of interfering with a government investigation. JO hands KAFFEE the file she's been holding. JO I'm Louden Downey's attorney. KAFFEE's stunned. He opens the file and begins to read. JO (continuing) Aunt Ginny. She said she feels like she's known me for years. I suggested that she might feel more comfortable if I were directly involved with the case. She had Louden sign the papers about an hour ago. KAFFEE looks up. Still too stunned to say anything. Then finally... KAFFEE I suppose it's way too much to hope that you're just making this up to bother me. JO Don't worry, I'm not gonna make a motion for separation, you're still lead counsel. KAFFEE hands her back the file. KAFFEE Splendid. JO I think Kendrick ordered the Code Red. (beat) So do you. CUT TO: INT. A HOLDING ROOM IN THE BRIG - NIGHT DAWSON and DOWNEY come to attention as KAFFEE and JO are led in. DAWSON Officer on deck, ten hut. KAFFEE starts in immediately. KAFFEE Did Kendrick order the code red? DAWSON Sir? KAFFEE Don't say sir like I just asked you if you cleaned the latrine. You heard what I said. Did Lt. Kendrick order you guys to give Santiago a code red? DAWSON Yes sir. KAFFEE (to Downey) Did he? DOWNEY Yes sir. KAFFEE You mind telling me why the hell you never mentioned this before? DAWSON You didn't ask us, sir. KAFFEE Cutie-pie shit's not gonna win you a place in my heart, corporal, I get paid no matter how much time you spend in jail. DAWSON Yes

torn

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

was damn funny. Jo moves close to KAFFEE to say this with a degree of confidentiality. JO I do know you. Daniel AlliStair Kaffee, born June 8th, 1964 at Boston Mercy Hospital. Your father's Lionel Kaffee, former Navy Judge Advocate and Attorney General, of the United States, died 1985. You went to Harvard Law on a Navy scholarship, probably because that's what your father wanted you to do, and now you're just treading water for the three years you've gotta serve in the JAG Corps, just kinda layin' low til you can get out and get a real job. And if that's the situation, that's fine, I won't tell anyone. But my feeling is that if this case is handled in the same fast-food, slick-ass, Persian Bazaar manner with which you seem to handle everything else, something's gonna get missed. And I wouldn't be doing my job if I allowed Dawson and Downey to spend any more time in prison than absolutely necessary, because their attorney had pre- determined the path of least resistance. KAFFEE can't help but be impressed by that speech. KAFFEE Wow. (beat) I'm sexually aroused, Commander. JO I don't think your clients murdered anybody. KAFFEE What are you basing this on? JO There was no intent. KAFFEE The doctor's report says that Santiago died of asphyxiation brought on by acute lactic acidosis, and that the nature of the acidosis strongly suggests poisoning. (beat) Now, I don't know what any of that means, but it sounds pretty bad. JO Santiago died at one a.m. At three the doctor was unable to determine the cause of death, but two hours later he said it was poison. KAFFEE Oh, now I see what you're saying. It had to be Professor Plum in the library with the candlestick. JO I'm gonna speak to your supervisor. KAFFEE Okay. You go straight up Pennsylvania Avenue. It's a big white house with pillars in front. JO Thank you. KAFFEE I don't think you'll have much luck, though. I was assigned by Division, remember? Somebody over there thinks I'm a good lawyer. So while I appreciate your interest and admire your enthusiasm, I think I can pretty much handle things myself. JO Do you know what a code red is? KAFFEE doesn't, but he doesn't say anything. JO (continuing) What a pity. CUT TO: INT. THE BRIG - DAY And an M.P. is leading KAFFEE and SAM down to DAWSON and DOWNEY's cell. M.P. Officer on deck, ten-hut. DAWSON and DOWNEY come to attention. Through the following, the M.P. will unlock the call door and let the lawyers in. DAWSON Sir, Lance Corporal Harold W. Dawson, sir. Rifle Security Company Windward, Second Platoon, Delta. KAFFEE Someone hasn't been working and playing well with others, Harold. DAWSON Sir, yes sir! DOWNEY Sir, PFC Louden Downey. KAFFEE I'm Daniel Kaffee, this is Sam Weinerg, you can sitdown. DAWSON and DOWNEY aren't too comfortable sitting in the presence of officers, but they do as they're told. KAFFEE's pulled out some documents, SAM's sitting on one of the cots taking notes. KAFFEE (continuing; to DAWSON) Is this your signature? DAWSON Yes sir. KAFFEE You don't have to call me sir. (to DOWNEY) Is this your signature? DOWNEY Sir, yes sir. KAFFEE And you certainly don't have to do it twice in one sentence. Harold, what's a Code Red? DAWSON Sir, a Code Red is a disciplinary engagement. KAFFEE What does that mean, exactly? DAWSON Sir, a marine falls out of line, it's up to the men in his unit to get him back on track. KAFFEE What's a garden variety Code Red? DAWSON Sir? KAFFEE Harold, you say sir and I turn around and look for my father. Danny, Daniel, Kaffee. Garden variety; typical. What's a basic Code Red? DAWSON Sir, a marine has refused to bathe on a regular basis. The men in his squad would give him a G.I. shower. KAFFEE What's that? DAWSON Scrub brushes, brillo pads, steel wool... SAM Beautiful. KAFFEE Was the attack on Santiago a Code Red? DAWSON Yes sir. KAFFEE (to DOWNEY) Do you ever talk? DAWSON Sir, Private Downey will answer any direct questions you ask him. KAFFEE Swell. Private Downey, the rag you stuffed in Santiago's mouth, was there poison on it? DOWNEY No sir. KAFFEE Silver polish, turpentine, anti- freeze... DOWNEY No sir. We were gonna shave his head, sir. KAFFEE When all of a sudden...? DOWNEY We saw blood drippinq out of his mouth. Then we pulled the tape off, and there was blood all down his face, sir. That's when Corporal Dawson called the ambulance. KAFFEE tries not to make too big a deal out of this last piece of news. KAFFEE (to DAWSON) Did anyone see you call the ambulance? DAWSON No sir. KAFFEE Were you there when the ambulance got there? DAWSON Yes sir, that's when we were taken under arrest. KAFFEE kinda strolls to the corner of the cell to think for a moment. SAM (to DAWSON) On the night of August 2nd, did you fire a shot across the fenceline into Cuba? DAWSON Yes sir. SAM Why? DAWSON My mirror engaged, sir. KAFFEE (to SAM) His mirror engaged? SAM For each American sentry post there's a Cuban counterpart. They're called mirrors. The corporal's claiming that his mirror was about to fire at him. KAFFEE Santiago's letter to the NIS said you fired illegally. He's saying that the guy, the mirror, he never made a move. DAWSON says nothing. KAFFEE (continuing) Oh, Harold? SAM is staring at DAWSON. KAFFEE (continuing) You see what I'm getting at? If Santiago didn't have anything on you, then why did you give him a Code Red? DAWSON Because he broke the chain of command, sir. KAFFEE He what? DAWSON He went outside his unit, sir. If he had a problem, he should've spoken to me, sir. Then his Sergeant, then Company Commander, then -- KAFFEE Yeah, yeah, alright. Harold, did you assault Santiago with the intent of killing him? DAWSON No sir. KAFFEE What was your intent? DAWSON To train him, sir. KAFFEE Train him to do what? DAWSON Train him to think of his unit before himself. To respect the code. SAM What's the code? DAWSON Unit Corps God Country. SAM I beg your pardon? DAWSON Unit Corps God Country, sir. KAFFEE The Goverrment of the United States wants to charge you two with murder. You want me to go to the prosecutor with unit, corps, god, country? DAWSON stares at KAFFEE. DAWSON That's our code, sir. KAFFEE takes a long moment. He picks up his briefcase and he and SAM move to the door. KAFFEE We'll be back. You guys need anything? Books paper, cigarettes, a ham sandwich? DAWSON Sir. No thank you. Sir. KAFFEE smiles at DAWSON. KAFFEE Harold, I think there's a concept you better start warming up to. DAWSON Sir? KAFFEE I'm the only friend you've got. And as KAFFEE and SAM walk out the open cell door, DAWSON and DOWNEY come to attention and snap a salute. They hold the salute until KAFFEE and SAM are well out of sight, and we CUT TO: INT. KAFFEE'S OFFICE - DAY He's packing up stuff into his briefcase at the end of the work day. Lt. JACK ROSS, a marine lawyer maybe two years older than Kaffee, opens the door and walks in.. ROSS Dan Kaffee. KAFFEE Sailin' Jack Ross. ROSS Welcome to the big time. KAFFEE You think so? ROSS I hope for Dawson and Downey's sake you practice law better than you play softball. KAFFEE Unfortunately for Dawson and Downey, I don't do anything better than I play softball. What are we lookin' at? ROSS They plead guilty to manslaughter, I'll drop the conspiracy and the conduct unbecoming. 20 years, they'll be home in half that time. KAFFEE I want twelve. ROSS Can't do it. KAFFEE They called the ambulance, Jack. ROSS I don't care if they called the Avon Lady, they killed a marine. KAFFEE The rag was tested for poison. The autopsy, lab report, even the initial E.R. and C.O.D. reports. They all say the same thing: Maybe, maybe not. ROSS The Chief of Internal Medicine at the Guantanamo Bay Naval hospital says he's sure. KAFFEE What do you know about Code Reds? ROSS smiles and shakes his head. ROSS Oh man. He closes the office door. ROSS (continuing) Are we off the record? KAFFEE You tell me. ROSS (pause) I'm gonna give you the twelve years, but before you go getting yourself into trouble tomorrow, you should know this: The platoon commander Lt. Jonathan Kendrick, had a meeting with the men. And he specifically told them not to touch Santiago. KAFFEE holds for a moment. Dawson and Downey neglected to mention this... He packs up his briefcase and cleats. KAFFEE I'll talk to you when I get back. ROSS Hey, we got a little four-on-four going tomorrow night. When does your plane get in? CUT TO: EXT. THE PARKING LOT - DUSK It's dusk and people on the base are going home from work. We can see the flag being lowered in the background. KAFFEE's walking toward his car. JO intercepts him and starts walking along with him. JO Hi there. KAFFEE Any luck getting me replaced? JO Is there anyone in this command that you don't either drink or play softball with? KAFFEE Commander -- JO Listen, I came to make peace. We started off on the wrong foot. What do you say? Friends? KAFFEE Look, I don't -- JO By the way, I brought Downey some comic books he was asking for. The kid, Kaffee, I swear, he doesn't know where he is, he doesn't even know why he's been arrested. KAFFEE Commander -- JO You can call me Joanne. KAFFEE Joanne -- JO or Jo. KAFFEE Jo? JO Yes. KAFFEE Jo, if you ever speak to a client of mine again without my permission, I'll have you disbarred. Friends? JO I had authorization. KAFFEE From where? JO Downey's closest living relative, Ginny Miller, his aunt on his mother's side. KAFFEE You got authorization from Aunt Ginny? JO I gave her a call like you asked. Very nice woman, we talked for about an hour. KAFFEE You got authorization from Aunt Ginny. JO Perfectly within my province. KAFFEE Does Aunt Ginny have a barn? We can hold the trial there. I can sew the costumes, and maybe his Uncle Goober can be the judge. Jo steps aside and lets KAFFEE got into his car. JO I'm going to Cuba with you tomorrow. KAFFEE And the hits just keep on comin'. HOLD on KAFFEE and Jo. JO smiles. CUT TO: EXT. SIDEWALK NEWSSTAND - DUSK KAFFEE IN HIS CAR He's driving down a Washington street and pulls over at a sidewalk newsstand. He gets out of his car, leaving the lights flashing, and runs up to the newsstand. As he plunks his 35 cents down and picks up a newspaper, he engages in his daily ritual with LUTHER, the newsstand operator. KAFFEE How's it goin', Luther? LUTHER Another day, another dollar, captain. KAFFEE You gotta play 'em as they lay, Luther. LUTHER What comes around, goes around, you know what I'm sayin'. KAFFEE If you can't beat 'em, join 'em. LUTHER Hey, if you've got your health, you got everything. KAFFEE Love makes the world go round. I'll see you tomorrow, Luther. And we CUT TO: INT. SAM'S LIVING ROOM - NIGHT A baby sleeping in a crib pull rack to reveal SAM is standing over the crib. KAFFEE's sitting on a beer. SAM When Nancy gets back, you're my witness. The baby spoke. My daughter said a word. KAFFEE Your daughter made a sound, Sam, I'm not sure it was a word. SAM Oh come on, it was a word. KAFFEE Okay. SAM You heard her. The girl sat here, pointed, and said "Pa". She did. She said "Pa". KAFFEE She was pointing at a doorknob. SAM That's right. Pointing, as if to say, "Pa, look, a doorknob". SAM joins KAFFEE in the living room. KAFFEE Jack Ross came to see me today. He offered me twelve years. SAM That's what you wanted. KAFFEE I know, and I'll... I guess, I mean -- (beat) I'll take it. SAM So? KAFFEE It took albout 45 seconds. He barely put up a fight. SAM (beat) Danny, take the twelve years, it's a gift. KAFFEE finishes off his beer, and stands. KAFFEE You don't believe their story, do you? You think they ought to go to jail for the rest of their lives. SAM I believe every word they said. And I think they ought to go to jail for the rest of their lives. KAFFEE nods and puts down the empty beer bottle. KAFFEE I'll see you tomorrow. Sam opens the front door for him and they stand out on the stoop for a moment. SAM Remember to wear your whites, it's hot down there. KAFFEE I don't like the whites. SAM Nobody likes the whites, but we're going to Cuba in August. You got Dramamine? KAFFEE Dramamine keeps you cool? SAM Dramamine keeps you from throwing up, you get sick when you fly. KAFFEE I get sick when I fly because I'm afraid of crashing into a large mountain, I don't think Dramamine'll help. SAM I've got some oregano, I hear that works pretty good. KAFFEE Yeah, right. KAFFEE starts toward his car, then turns around. KAFFEE (continuing) You know, Ross said the strangest thing to me right before I left. He said the platoon commander Lieutenant Jonathan Kendrick had a meeting with the men and specifically told them not to touch Santiago. SAM So? KAFFEE I never mentioned Kendrick. I don't even know who he is. (beat) What the hell. (beat) I'll see you tomorrow. We hold for a moment on KAFFEE as he walks to his car, then CUT TO: EXT. THE AIRSTRIP AT GUANTANAMO BAY - DAY The whole place, in stark contrast to the Washington Navy Yard, is ready to go to war. Fighter jets line the tarmac. Ground crews re-fuel planes. Hurried activity. A 36 seat Airforce Jet rolls to a stop on the tarmac and a stair unit is brought up. HOWARD, a marine corporal, is waiting by the stairway as the passengers begin to got off. Mostly MARINES, a few SAILORS, a couple of CIVILIANS, and KAFFEE, JO and SAM. KAFFEE and SAM are wearing their summer whites, JO is in khakis. KAFFEE and SAM stare out at what they see: They're not in Kansas anymore. HOWARD shouts over the noise from the planes. HOWARD Lieutenants Kaffee and Weinberg? KAFFEE (shouting) Yeah. JO Commander Galloway. HOWARD I'm Corporal Howard, ma'am, I'm to escort you to the Windward side of the base. JO Thank you. HOWARD I've got some camouflage jackets in the back of the jeep, sirs, I'll have to ask you both to put them on. KAFFEE Camouflage jackets? HOWARD Regulations, sir. We'll be riding pretty close to the fenceline. The Cubans see an officer wearing white, they think it's someone they might wanna take a shot at. KAFFEE turns and glares at SAM. KAFFEE Good call, Sam. CUT TO: EXT. CUBAN ROAD - THE JEEP - DAY Tearing along down the road, and now we see a beautiful expanse of water, maybe 1000 yards across. It's a section of Guantanamo Bay. HOWARD (shouting) We'll just hop on the ferry and be over there in no time. KAFFEE (shouting) Whoa! Hold it! We gotta take a boat?! HOWARD Yes sir, to get to the other side of the bay. KAFFEE Nobody said anything about a boat. HOWARD (shouting) Is there a problem, sir? KAFFEE (shouting) No. No problem. I'm just not that crazy about boats, that's all. JO (shouting) Jesus Christ, Kaffee, you're in the Navy for cryin' out loud! KAFFEE (shouting) Nobody likes her very much. HOWARD (shouting) Yes sir. The jeep drives on and we CUT TO: JESSEP, MARKINSON and KENDRICK are standing as the LAWYERS are led in. JESSEP Nathan Jessep, come on in and siddown. KAFFEE Thank you. I'm Daniel Kaffee, I'm the attorney for Dawson and Downey. This is Joanne Galloway, she's observing and evaluating -- JO (shaking hands) Colonel. JESSEP Pleased to meet you, Commander. KAFFEE Sam Weinberg. He has no responsibility here whatsoever. JESSEP I've asked Captain Markinson and Lt. Kendrick to join us. MARKINSON Lt. Kaffee, I had the pleasure of seeing your father once. I was a teenager and he spoke at my high school. KAFFEE smiles and nods. JESSEP Lionel Kaffee? KAFFEE Yes sir. JESSEP Well what do you know. Son, this man's dad once made a lot of enemies down in your neck of the woods. Jefferson vs. Madison County School District. The folks down there said a little black girl couldn't go to an all white school, Lionel Kaffee said we'll just see about that. How the hell is your dad? KAFFEE He passed away seven years ago, colonel. JESSEP (pause) Well... don't I feel like the fuckin, asshole. KAFFEE Not at all, sir. JESSEP Well, what can we do for you, Danny. KAFFEE Not much at all, sir, I'm afraid. This is really a formality more than anything else. The JAG Corps insists that I interview all the relevant witnesses. JO The JAG Corps can be demanding that way. JESSEP smiles. JESSEP Jonanthan'll take you out and show you what you wanna see, then we can all hook up for lunch, how does that sound? KAFFEE Fine, sir. CUT TO: EXT. THE FENCELINE - DAY A SQUAD OF MARINES jogs by as a jeep carrying KENDRICK and the three LAWYERS cruises down the road. We FOLLOW the jeep. KAFFEE I understand you had a meeting with your men that afternoon. KENDRICK Yes. KAFFEE What'd you guys talk about? KENDRICK I told the men that there was an informer among us. And that despite any desire they might have to seek retribution, Private Santiago was not to be harmed in any way. KAFFEE What time was that meeting? KENDRICK Sixteen-hundred. KAFFEE turns around and looks at SAM. SAM (leaning forward) Four o'clock. CUT TO: INT. THE BARRACKS CORRIDOR - DAY KENDRICK leads the LAWYERS down the corridor to Santiago's room. Two strips of tape which warn DO NOT ENTER - AT ORDER OF THE MILITARY POLICE are crisscrossed over the closed door. They open the door and step under the tape and walk into INT. SANTIAGO'S ROOM - DAY The room is exactly an it was left that night. The un-made bed, the chair knocked over... The LAWYERS look around for a moment. The room is sparse. Kaffee goes to the closet and opens it: A row of uniforms hanging neatly. He thumbs through then for a second, but there's nothing there. He opens the footlocker: Socks, underwear... all folded to marine corp precision... A shaving kit, a couple of photographs, a pad of writing paper and some envelopes... Kaffee closes the footlocker. KAFFEE Sam, somebody should see about getting this stuff to his parents. We don't need it anymore. KENDRICK Actually, the uniforms belong to the marine corps. The LAWYERS take a moment. KAFFEE Lt. Kendrick -- can I call you Jon? KENDRICK No, you may not. KAFFEE (beat) Have I done something to offend you? KENDRICK No, I like all you Navy boys. Every time we've gotta go someplace and fight, you fellas always give us a ride. JO Lt. Kendrick, do you think Santiago was murdered? KENDRICK Commander, I believe in God, and in his son Jesus Christ, and because I do, I can say this: Private Santiago is dead and that's a tragedy. But he's dead because he had no code. He's dead because he had no honor. And God was watching. SAM turns to KAFFEE. SAM How do you feel about that theory? KAFFEE (beat) Sounds good. Let's move on. SAM and KENDRICK walk out the door. JO stops KAFFEE. JO You planning on doing any investigating or are you just gonna take the guided tour? KAFFEE (beat) I'm pacing myself. CUT TO: INT. THE OFFICERS CLUB - DAY JESSEP, MARKINSON, KENDRICK and the LAWYERS are seated at a table in the corner. Stewards clear the lunch dishes and pour coffee. Jessep is finishing a story. JESSEP ...And they spent the next three hours running around, looking for Americans to surrender to. JESSEP laughs. KENDRICK joins him. SAM and KAFFEE force a laugh. MARKINSON forces a smile. JO remains silent. JESSEP (continuing; to the STEWARDS) That was delicious, men, thank you. STEWARD Our pleasure, sir. KAFFEE Colonel just need to ask you a couple of questions about August 6th. JESSEP Shoot. KAFFEE On the morning of the sixth, you were contacted by an NIS angent who said that Santiago had tipped him off to an illegal fenceline shooting. JESSEP Yes. KAFFEE Santiago was gonna reveal the person's name in exchange for a transfer. An I getting this right? JESSEP Yes. KAFFEE If you feel there are any details that I'm missing, you should free to speak up. JESSEP's not quite sure what to say to this Navy Lawyer Lieutenant-Smartass guy who just gave him permission to speak freely on his own base. JESSEP Thank you. KAFFEE Now it was at this point that you called Captain Markinson and Lt. Kendrick into your office? JESSEP Yes. KAFFEE And what happened then? JESSEP We agreed that for his own safety, Santiago should be transferred off the base. Here's something else KAFFEE didn't know. Neither did Jo. SAM jots something down on a small notepad. MARKINSON doesn't flinch. KAFFEE Santiago was set to be transferred? JESSEP On the first available flight to the states. Six the next morning. Three hours too late as it turned out. KAFFEE nods. KAFFEE Yeah. There's silence for a moment. KAFFEE takes a sip of his coffee. Then drains the cup and puts it down. KAFFEE (continuing) Alright, that's all I have. Thanks very much for your time. KENDRICK The corporal's got the jeep outside, he'll take you back to the airstrip. KAFFEE (standing) Thank you. JO Wait a minute, I've got some questions. KAFFEE No you don't. JO Yes I do. KAFFEE No you don't. JO Colonel, on the morning that Santiago died, did you meet with Doctor Stone between three and five? KAFFEE Jo -- JESSEP Of course I met with the doctor. One of my men was dead. KAFFEE (to JO) See? The man was dead. Let's go. JO (to JESSEP) I was wondering if you've ever heard the term Code Red. KAFFEE Jo -- JESSEP I've heard the term, yes. JO Colonel, this past February, you received a cautionary memo from the Naval Investigative Service, warning that the practice of enlisted men disciplining their own wasn't to be condoned by officers. JESSEP I submit to you that whoever wrote that memo has never served on the working end of a Soviet-made Cuban Ml-Al6 Assault Rifle. However, the directive having come from the NIS, I gave it its due attention. What's your point, Jo? KAFFEE She has no point. She often has no point. It's part of her charm. We're outta here. Thank you. JO My point is that I think code reds still go on down here. Do Code Reds still happen on this base, colonel? KAFFEE Jo, the colonel doesn't need to answer that. JO Yes he does. KAFFEE No, he really doesn't. JO Yeah, he really does. Colonel? JESSEP You know it just hit me. She outranks you, Danny. KAFFEE Yes sir. JESSEP I want to tell you something Danny and listen up 'cause I mean this: You're the luckiest man in the world. There is, believe me gentlemen, nothing sexier on earth than a woman you have to salute in the morning. Promote 'em all I say. JO's not upset. JO's not mad. But she's gonna ask her question 'til she gets an answer. JO Colonel, the practice of code Reds is still condoned by officers on this base, isn't it? JESSEP You see my problem is, of course, that I'm a Colonel. I'll just have to keep taking cold showers 'til they elect some gal President. JO I need an answer to my question, sir. JESSEP Take caution in your tone, Commander. I'm a fair guy, but this fuckin' heat's making me absolutely crazy. You want to know about code reds? On the record I tell you that I discourage the practice in accordance with the NIS directive. Off the record I tell you that it's an invaluable part of close infantry training, and if it happens to go on without my knowledge, so be it. I run my base how I run my base. You want to investigate me, roll the dice and take your chances. I eat breakfast 80 yards away from 4000 Cubans who are trained to kill me. So don't for one second think you're gonna come down here, flash a badge, and make me nervous. A moment of tense silence before -- KAFFEE Let's go. Colonel, I'll just need a copy of Santiago's transfer order. JESSEP What's that? KAFFEE Santiago's transfer order. You guys have paper work on that kind of thing, I just need it for the file. JESSEP For the file. KAFFEE Yeah. JESSEP (pause) Of course you can have a copy of the transfer order. For the file. I'm here to help anyway I can. KAFFEE Thank you. JESSEP You believe that, don't you? Danny? That I'm here to help anyway I can? KAFFEE Of course. JESSEP The corporal'll run you by Ordinance on your way out to the airstrip. You can have all the transfer orders you want. KAFFEE (to JO and SAM) Let's go. The LAWYERS start to leave. JESSEP But you have to ask me nicely. KAFFEE stops. Turns around. Sam and JO stop and turn. KAFFEE I beg your pardon? JESSEP You have to ask me nicely. You see, Danny, I can deal with the bullets and the bombs and the blood. I can deal with the heat and the stress and the fear. I don't want money and I don't want medals. What I want is for you to stand there in that faggoty white uniform, and with your Harvard mouth, extend me some fuckin' courtesy. You gotta ask me nicely. KAFFEE and JESSEP are frozen. Everyone'staring at Kaffee; The OFFICERS at their tables... KENDRICK... SAM... MARKINSON... JO... KAFFEE makes his decision. KAFFEE Colonel Jessep... if it's not too much trouble, I'd like a copy of the transfer order. Sir. JESSEP smiles. JESSEP No problem. HOLD for a moment. JO's very disappointed. JESSEP stands there and watches the LAWYERS as they turn and leave the Officer's Club. JESSEP (continuing) I hate casualties, Matthew. There are casualties even in victory. A marine smothers a grenade and saves his platoon, that marine's a hero. The foundation of the unit, the fabric of this base, the spirit of the Corps, they are things worth fighting for. MARKINSON looks at the ground. JESSEP (continuing) Dawson and Downey, they don't know it, but they're smothering a grenade. MARKINSON looks up as we CUT TO: EXT. ANDREWS AIRFORCE BASE - DUSK As a plane touches down on the runway. It's dusk in Washington and CUT TO: EXT. KAFFEE'S APARTMENT - DAY A little one-bedroom. Just the essential furniture, barely even that. KAFFEE's sitting and watching a baseball came on t.v. He's holding a copy of The Baseball Encyclopedia, normally his favorite reading material, but right now he's having trouble keeping his mind in it. He's holding a baseball bat and fiddling with it. The remnants of a pizza and Yoo-Hoo dinner sit next to him. His white uniform in a pile in the corner. There's a BUZZ at the door. KAFFEE's not expecting anyone. He goes to the door. KAFFEE Who is it? JO (O.S.) It's me. KAFFEE opens the door and JO walks in. KAFFEE I've really missed you, Jo. I was just saying to myself, "It's been almost three hours since I last saw -- " JO Markinson resigned his commission. KAFFEE (pause) When? JO This afternoon. Sometime after we left. KAFFEE I'll talk to him in the morning. JO I already tried, I can't find him. KAFFEE You tried? Joanne, you're coming dangerously close to the textbook definition of interfering with a government investigation. JO hands KAFFEE the file she's been holding. JO I'm Louden Downey's attorney. KAFFEE's stunned. He opens the file and begins to read. JO (continuing) Aunt Ginny. She said she feels like she's known me for years. I suggested that she might feel more comfortable if I were directly involved with the case. She had Louden sign the papers about an hour ago. KAFFEE looks up. Still too stunned to say anything. Then finally... KAFFEE I suppose it's way too much to hope that you're just making this up to bother me. JO Don't worry, I'm not gonna make a motion for separation, you're still lead counsel. KAFFEE hands her back the file. KAFFEE Splendid. JO I think Kendrick ordered the Code Red. (beat) So do you. CUT TO: INT. A HOLDING ROOM IN THE BRIG - NIGHT DAWSON and DOWNEY come to attention as KAFFEE and JO are led in. DAWSON Officer on deck, ten hut. KAFFEE starts in immediately. KAFFEE Did Kendrick order the code red? DAWSON Sir? KAFFEE Don't say sir like I just asked you if you cleaned the latrine. You heard what I said. Did Lt. Kendrick order you guys to give Santiago a code red? DAWSON Yes sir. KAFFEE (to Downey) Did he? DOWNEY Yes sir. KAFFEE You mind telling me why the hell you never mentioned this before? DAWSON You didn't ask us, sir. KAFFEE Cutie-pie shit's not gonna win you a place in my heart, corporal, I get paid no matter how much time you spend in jail. DAWSON Yes

closes

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

was damn funny. Jo moves close to KAFFEE to say this with a degree of confidentiality. JO I do know you. Daniel AlliStair Kaffee, born June 8th, 1964 at Boston Mercy Hospital. Your father's Lionel Kaffee, former Navy Judge Advocate and Attorney General, of the United States, died 1985. You went to Harvard Law on a Navy scholarship, probably because that's what your father wanted you to do, and now you're just treading water for the three years you've gotta serve in the JAG Corps, just kinda layin' low til you can get out and get a real job. And if that's the situation, that's fine, I won't tell anyone. But my feeling is that if this case is handled in the same fast-food, slick-ass, Persian Bazaar manner with which you seem to handle everything else, something's gonna get missed. And I wouldn't be doing my job if I allowed Dawson and Downey to spend any more time in prison than absolutely necessary, because their attorney had pre- determined the path of least resistance. KAFFEE can't help but be impressed by that speech. KAFFEE Wow. (beat) I'm sexually aroused, Commander. JO I don't think your clients murdered anybody. KAFFEE What are you basing this on? JO There was no intent. KAFFEE The doctor's report says that Santiago died of asphyxiation brought on by acute lactic acidosis, and that the nature of the acidosis strongly suggests poisoning. (beat) Now, I don't know what any of that means, but it sounds pretty bad. JO Santiago died at one a.m. At three the doctor was unable to determine the cause of death, but two hours later he said it was poison. KAFFEE Oh, now I see what you're saying. It had to be Professor Plum in the library with the candlestick. JO I'm gonna speak to your supervisor. KAFFEE Okay. You go straight up Pennsylvania Avenue. It's a big white house with pillars in front. JO Thank you. KAFFEE I don't think you'll have much luck, though. I was assigned by Division, remember? Somebody over there thinks I'm a good lawyer. So while I appreciate your interest and admire your enthusiasm, I think I can pretty much handle things myself. JO Do you know what a code red is? KAFFEE doesn't, but he doesn't say anything. JO (continuing) What a pity. CUT TO: INT. THE BRIG - DAY And an M.P. is leading KAFFEE and SAM down to DAWSON and DOWNEY's cell. M.P. Officer on deck, ten-hut. DAWSON and DOWNEY come to attention. Through the following, the M.P. will unlock the call door and let the lawyers in. DAWSON Sir, Lance Corporal Harold W. Dawson, sir. Rifle Security Company Windward, Second Platoon, Delta. KAFFEE Someone hasn't been working and playing well with others, Harold. DAWSON Sir, yes sir! DOWNEY Sir, PFC Louden Downey. KAFFEE I'm Daniel Kaffee, this is Sam Weinerg, you can sitdown. DAWSON and DOWNEY aren't too comfortable sitting in the presence of officers, but they do as they're told. KAFFEE's pulled out some documents, SAM's sitting on one of the cots taking notes. KAFFEE (continuing; to DAWSON) Is this your signature? DAWSON Yes sir. KAFFEE You don't have to call me sir. (to DOWNEY) Is this your signature? DOWNEY Sir, yes sir. KAFFEE And you certainly don't have to do it twice in one sentence. Harold, what's a Code Red? DAWSON Sir, a Code Red is a disciplinary engagement. KAFFEE What does that mean, exactly? DAWSON Sir, a marine falls out of line, it's up to the men in his unit to get him back on track. KAFFEE What's a garden variety Code Red? DAWSON Sir? KAFFEE Harold, you say sir and I turn around and look for my father. Danny, Daniel, Kaffee. Garden variety; typical. What's a basic Code Red? DAWSON Sir, a marine has refused to bathe on a regular basis. The men in his squad would give him a G.I. shower. KAFFEE What's that? DAWSON Scrub brushes, brillo pads, steel wool... SAM Beautiful. KAFFEE Was the attack on Santiago a Code Red? DAWSON Yes sir. KAFFEE (to DOWNEY) Do you ever talk? DAWSON Sir, Private Downey will answer any direct questions you ask him. KAFFEE Swell. Private Downey, the rag you stuffed in Santiago's mouth, was there poison on it? DOWNEY No sir. KAFFEE Silver polish, turpentine, anti- freeze... DOWNEY No sir. We were gonna shave his head, sir. KAFFEE When all of a sudden...? DOWNEY We saw blood drippinq out of his mouth. Then we pulled the tape off, and there was blood all down his face, sir. That's when Corporal Dawson called the ambulance. KAFFEE tries not to make too big a deal out of this last piece of news. KAFFEE (to DAWSON) Did anyone see you call the ambulance? DAWSON No sir. KAFFEE Were you there when the ambulance got there? DAWSON Yes sir, that's when we were taken under arrest. KAFFEE kinda strolls to the corner of the cell to think for a moment. SAM (to DAWSON) On the night of August 2nd, did you fire a shot across the fenceline into Cuba? DAWSON Yes sir. SAM Why? DAWSON My mirror engaged, sir. KAFFEE (to SAM) His mirror engaged? SAM For each American sentry post there's a Cuban counterpart. They're called mirrors. The corporal's claiming that his mirror was about to fire at him. KAFFEE Santiago's letter to the NIS said you fired illegally. He's saying that the guy, the mirror, he never made a move. DAWSON says nothing. KAFFEE (continuing) Oh, Harold? SAM is staring at DAWSON. KAFFEE (continuing) You see what I'm getting at? If Santiago didn't have anything on you, then why did you give him a Code Red? DAWSON Because he broke the chain of command, sir. KAFFEE He what? DAWSON He went outside his unit, sir. If he had a problem, he should've spoken to me, sir. Then his Sergeant, then Company Commander, then -- KAFFEE Yeah, yeah, alright. Harold, did you assault Santiago with the intent of killing him? DAWSON No sir. KAFFEE What was your intent? DAWSON To train him, sir. KAFFEE Train him to do what? DAWSON Train him to think of his unit before himself. To respect the code. SAM What's the code? DAWSON Unit Corps God Country. SAM I beg your pardon? DAWSON Unit Corps God Country, sir. KAFFEE The Goverrment of the United States wants to charge you two with murder. You want me to go to the prosecutor with unit, corps, god, country? DAWSON stares at KAFFEE. DAWSON That's our code, sir. KAFFEE takes a long moment. He picks up his briefcase and he and SAM move to the door. KAFFEE We'll be back. You guys need anything? Books paper, cigarettes, a ham sandwich? DAWSON Sir. No thank you. Sir. KAFFEE smiles at DAWSON. KAFFEE Harold, I think there's a concept you better start warming up to. DAWSON Sir? KAFFEE I'm the only friend you've got. And as KAFFEE and SAM walk out the open cell door, DAWSON and DOWNEY come to attention and snap a salute. They hold the salute until KAFFEE and SAM are well out of sight, and we CUT TO: INT. KAFFEE'S OFFICE - DAY He's packing up stuff into his briefcase at the end of the work day. Lt. JACK ROSS, a marine lawyer maybe two years older than Kaffee, opens the door and walks in.. ROSS Dan Kaffee. KAFFEE Sailin' Jack Ross. ROSS Welcome to the big time. KAFFEE You think so? ROSS I hope for Dawson and Downey's sake you practice law better than you play softball. KAFFEE Unfortunately for Dawson and Downey, I don't do anything better than I play softball. What are we lookin' at? ROSS They plead guilty to manslaughter, I'll drop the conspiracy and the conduct unbecoming. 20 years, they'll be home in half that time. KAFFEE I want twelve. ROSS Can't do it. KAFFEE They called the ambulance, Jack. ROSS I don't care if they called the Avon Lady, they killed a marine. KAFFEE The rag was tested for poison. The autopsy, lab report, even the initial E.R. and C.O.D. reports. They all say the same thing: Maybe, maybe not. ROSS The Chief of Internal Medicine at the Guantanamo Bay Naval hospital says he's sure. KAFFEE What do you know about Code Reds? ROSS smiles and shakes his head. ROSS Oh man. He closes the office door. ROSS (continuing) Are we off the record? KAFFEE You tell me. ROSS (pause) I'm gonna give you the twelve years, but before you go getting yourself into trouble tomorrow, you should know this: The platoon commander Lt. Jonathan Kendrick, had a meeting with the men. And he specifically told them not to touch Santiago. KAFFEE holds for a moment. Dawson and Downey neglected to mention this... He packs up his briefcase and cleats. KAFFEE I'll talk to you when I get back. ROSS Hey, we got a little four-on-four going tomorrow night. When does your plane get in? CUT TO: EXT. THE PARKING LOT - DUSK It's dusk and people on the base are going home from work. We can see the flag being lowered in the background. KAFFEE's walking toward his car. JO intercepts him and starts walking along with him. JO Hi there. KAFFEE Any luck getting me replaced? JO Is there anyone in this command that you don't either drink or play softball with? KAFFEE Commander -- JO Listen, I came to make peace. We started off on the wrong foot. What do you say? Friends? KAFFEE Look, I don't -- JO By the way, I brought Downey some comic books he was asking for. The kid, Kaffee, I swear, he doesn't know where he is, he doesn't even know why he's been arrested. KAFFEE Commander -- JO You can call me Joanne. KAFFEE Joanne -- JO or Jo. KAFFEE Jo? JO Yes. KAFFEE Jo, if you ever speak to a client of mine again without my permission, I'll have you disbarred. Friends? JO I had authorization. KAFFEE From where? JO Downey's closest living relative, Ginny Miller, his aunt on his mother's side. KAFFEE You got authorization from Aunt Ginny? JO I gave her a call like you asked. Very nice woman, we talked for about an hour. KAFFEE You got authorization from Aunt Ginny. JO Perfectly within my province. KAFFEE Does Aunt Ginny have a barn? We can hold the trial there. I can sew the costumes, and maybe his Uncle Goober can be the judge. Jo steps aside and lets KAFFEE got into his car. JO I'm going to Cuba with you tomorrow. KAFFEE And the hits just keep on comin'. HOLD on KAFFEE and Jo. JO smiles. CUT TO: EXT. SIDEWALK NEWSSTAND - DUSK KAFFEE IN HIS CAR He's driving down a Washington street and pulls over at a sidewalk newsstand. He gets out of his car, leaving the lights flashing, and runs up to the newsstand. As he plunks his 35 cents down and picks up a newspaper, he engages in his daily ritual with LUTHER, the newsstand operator. KAFFEE How's it goin', Luther? LUTHER Another day, another dollar, captain. KAFFEE You gotta play 'em as they lay, Luther. LUTHER What comes around, goes around, you know what I'm sayin'. KAFFEE If you can't beat 'em, join 'em. LUTHER Hey, if you've got your health, you got everything. KAFFEE Love makes the world go round. I'll see you tomorrow, Luther. And we CUT TO: INT. SAM'S LIVING ROOM - NIGHT A baby sleeping in a crib pull rack to reveal SAM is standing over the crib. KAFFEE's sitting on a beer. SAM When Nancy gets back, you're my witness. The baby spoke. My daughter said a word. KAFFEE Your daughter made a sound, Sam, I'm not sure it was a word. SAM Oh come on, it was a word. KAFFEE Okay. SAM You heard her. The girl sat here, pointed, and said "Pa". She did. She said "Pa". KAFFEE She was pointing at a doorknob. SAM That's right. Pointing, as if to say, "Pa, look, a doorknob". SAM joins KAFFEE in the living room. KAFFEE Jack Ross came to see me today. He offered me twelve years. SAM That's what you wanted. KAFFEE I know, and I'll... I guess, I mean -- (beat) I'll take it. SAM So? KAFFEE It took albout 45 seconds. He barely put up a fight. SAM (beat) Danny, take the twelve years, it's a gift. KAFFEE finishes off his beer, and stands. KAFFEE You don't believe their story, do you? You think they ought to go to jail for the rest of their lives. SAM I believe every word they said. And I think they ought to go to jail for the rest of their lives. KAFFEE nods and puts down the empty beer bottle. KAFFEE I'll see you tomorrow. Sam opens the front door for him and they stand out on the stoop for a moment. SAM Remember to wear your whites, it's hot down there. KAFFEE I don't like the whites. SAM Nobody likes the whites, but we're going to Cuba in August. You got Dramamine? KAFFEE Dramamine keeps you cool? SAM Dramamine keeps you from throwing up, you get sick when you fly. KAFFEE I get sick when I fly because I'm afraid of crashing into a large mountain, I don't think Dramamine'll help. SAM I've got some oregano, I hear that works pretty good. KAFFEE Yeah, right. KAFFEE starts toward his car, then turns around. KAFFEE (continuing) You know, Ross said the strangest thing to me right before I left. He said the platoon commander Lieutenant Jonathan Kendrick had a meeting with the men and specifically told them not to touch Santiago. SAM So? KAFFEE I never mentioned Kendrick. I don't even know who he is. (beat) What the hell. (beat) I'll see you tomorrow. We hold for a moment on KAFFEE as he walks to his car, then CUT TO: EXT. THE AIRSTRIP AT GUANTANAMO BAY - DAY The whole place, in stark contrast to the Washington Navy Yard, is ready to go to war. Fighter jets line the tarmac. Ground crews re-fuel planes. Hurried activity. A 36 seat Airforce Jet rolls to a stop on the tarmac and a stair unit is brought up. HOWARD, a marine corporal, is waiting by the stairway as the passengers begin to got off. Mostly MARINES, a few SAILORS, a couple of CIVILIANS, and KAFFEE, JO and SAM. KAFFEE and SAM are wearing their summer whites, JO is in khakis. KAFFEE and SAM stare out at what they see: They're not in Kansas anymore. HOWARD shouts over the noise from the planes. HOWARD Lieutenants Kaffee and Weinberg? KAFFEE (shouting) Yeah. JO Commander Galloway. HOWARD I'm Corporal Howard, ma'am, I'm to escort you to the Windward side of the base. JO Thank you. HOWARD I've got some camouflage jackets in the back of the jeep, sirs, I'll have to ask you both to put them on. KAFFEE Camouflage jackets? HOWARD Regulations, sir. We'll be riding pretty close to the fenceline. The Cubans see an officer wearing white, they think it's someone they might wanna take a shot at. KAFFEE turns and glares at SAM. KAFFEE Good call, Sam. CUT TO: EXT. CUBAN ROAD - THE JEEP - DAY Tearing along down the road, and now we see a beautiful expanse of water, maybe 1000 yards across. It's a section of Guantanamo Bay. HOWARD (shouting) We'll just hop on the ferry and be over there in no time. KAFFEE (shouting) Whoa! Hold it! We gotta take a boat?! HOWARD Yes sir, to get to the other side of the bay. KAFFEE Nobody said anything about a boat. HOWARD (shouting) Is there a problem, sir? KAFFEE (shouting) No. No problem. I'm just not that crazy about boats, that's all. JO (shouting) Jesus Christ, Kaffee, you're in the Navy for cryin' out loud! KAFFEE (shouting) Nobody likes her very much. HOWARD (shouting) Yes sir. The jeep drives on and we CUT TO: JESSEP, MARKINSON and KENDRICK are standing as the LAWYERS are led in. JESSEP Nathan Jessep, come on in and siddown. KAFFEE Thank you. I'm Daniel Kaffee, I'm the attorney for Dawson and Downey. This is Joanne Galloway, she's observing and evaluating -- JO (shaking hands) Colonel. JESSEP Pleased to meet you, Commander. KAFFEE Sam Weinberg. He has no responsibility here whatsoever. JESSEP I've asked Captain Markinson and Lt. Kendrick to join us. MARKINSON Lt. Kaffee, I had the pleasure of seeing your father once. I was a teenager and he spoke at my high school. KAFFEE smiles and nods. JESSEP Lionel Kaffee? KAFFEE Yes sir. JESSEP Well what do you know. Son, this man's dad once made a lot of enemies down in your neck of the woods. Jefferson vs. Madison County School District. The folks down there said a little black girl couldn't go to an all white school, Lionel Kaffee said we'll just see about that. How the hell is your dad? KAFFEE He passed away seven years ago, colonel. JESSEP (pause) Well... don't I feel like the fuckin, asshole. KAFFEE Not at all, sir. JESSEP Well, what can we do for you, Danny. KAFFEE Not much at all, sir, I'm afraid. This is really a formality more than anything else. The JAG Corps insists that I interview all the relevant witnesses. JO The JAG Corps can be demanding that way. JESSEP smiles. JESSEP Jonanthan'll take you out and show you what you wanna see, then we can all hook up for lunch, how does that sound? KAFFEE Fine, sir. CUT TO: EXT. THE FENCELINE - DAY A SQUAD OF MARINES jogs by as a jeep carrying KENDRICK and the three LAWYERS cruises down the road. We FOLLOW the jeep. KAFFEE I understand you had a meeting with your men that afternoon. KENDRICK Yes. KAFFEE What'd you guys talk about? KENDRICK I told the men that there was an informer among us. And that despite any desire they might have to seek retribution, Private Santiago was not to be harmed in any way. KAFFEE What time was that meeting? KENDRICK Sixteen-hundred. KAFFEE turns around and looks at SAM. SAM (leaning forward) Four o'clock. CUT TO: INT. THE BARRACKS CORRIDOR - DAY KENDRICK leads the LAWYERS down the corridor to Santiago's room. Two strips of tape which warn DO NOT ENTER - AT ORDER OF THE MILITARY POLICE are crisscrossed over the closed door. They open the door and step under the tape and walk into INT. SANTIAGO'S ROOM - DAY The room is exactly an it was left that night. The un-made bed, the chair knocked over... The LAWYERS look around for a moment. The room is sparse. Kaffee goes to the closet and opens it: A row of uniforms hanging neatly. He thumbs through then for a second, but there's nothing there. He opens the footlocker: Socks, underwear... all folded to marine corp precision... A shaving kit, a couple of photographs, a pad of writing paper and some envelopes... Kaffee closes the footlocker. KAFFEE Sam, somebody should see about getting this stuff to his parents. We don't need it anymore. KENDRICK Actually, the uniforms belong to the marine corps. The LAWYERS take a moment. KAFFEE Lt. Kendrick -- can I call you Jon? KENDRICK No, you may not. KAFFEE (beat) Have I done something to offend you? KENDRICK No, I like all you Navy boys. Every time we've gotta go someplace and fight, you fellas always give us a ride. JO Lt. Kendrick, do you think Santiago was murdered? KENDRICK Commander, I believe in God, and in his son Jesus Christ, and because I do, I can say this: Private Santiago is dead and that's a tragedy. But he's dead because he had no code. He's dead because he had no honor. And God was watching. SAM turns to KAFFEE. SAM How do you feel about that theory? KAFFEE (beat) Sounds good. Let's move on. SAM and KENDRICK walk out the door. JO stops KAFFEE. JO You planning on doing any investigating or are you just gonna take the guided tour? KAFFEE (beat) I'm pacing myself. CUT TO: INT. THE OFFICERS CLUB - DAY JESSEP, MARKINSON, KENDRICK and the LAWYERS are seated at a table in the corner. Stewards clear the lunch dishes and pour coffee. Jessep is finishing a story. JESSEP ...And they spent the next three hours running around, looking for Americans to surrender to. JESSEP laughs. KENDRICK joins him. SAM and KAFFEE force a laugh. MARKINSON forces a smile. JO remains silent. JESSEP (continuing; to the STEWARDS) That was delicious, men, thank you. STEWARD Our pleasure, sir. KAFFEE Colonel just need to ask you a couple of questions about August 6th. JESSEP Shoot. KAFFEE On the morning of the sixth, you were contacted by an NIS angent who said that Santiago had tipped him off to an illegal fenceline shooting. JESSEP Yes. KAFFEE Santiago was gonna reveal the person's name in exchange for a transfer. An I getting this right? JESSEP Yes. KAFFEE If you feel there are any details that I'm missing, you should free to speak up. JESSEP's not quite sure what to say to this Navy Lawyer Lieutenant-Smartass guy who just gave him permission to speak freely on his own base. JESSEP Thank you. KAFFEE Now it was at this point that you called Captain Markinson and Lt. Kendrick into your office? JESSEP Yes. KAFFEE And what happened then? JESSEP We agreed that for his own safety, Santiago should be transferred off the base. Here's something else KAFFEE didn't know. Neither did Jo. SAM jots something down on a small notepad. MARKINSON doesn't flinch. KAFFEE Santiago was set to be transferred? JESSEP On the first available flight to the states. Six the next morning. Three hours too late as it turned out. KAFFEE nods. KAFFEE Yeah. There's silence for a moment. KAFFEE takes a sip of his coffee. Then drains the cup and puts it down. KAFFEE (continuing) Alright, that's all I have. Thanks very much for your time. KENDRICK The corporal's got the jeep outside, he'll take you back to the airstrip. KAFFEE (standing) Thank you. JO Wait a minute, I've got some questions. KAFFEE No you don't. JO Yes I do. KAFFEE No you don't. JO Colonel, on the morning that Santiago died, did you meet with Doctor Stone between three and five? KAFFEE Jo -- JESSEP Of course I met with the doctor. One of my men was dead. KAFFEE (to JO) See? The man was dead. Let's go. JO (to JESSEP) I was wondering if you've ever heard the term Code Red. KAFFEE Jo -- JESSEP I've heard the term, yes. JO Colonel, this past February, you received a cautionary memo from the Naval Investigative Service, warning that the practice of enlisted men disciplining their own wasn't to be condoned by officers. JESSEP I submit to you that whoever wrote that memo has never served on the working end of a Soviet-made Cuban Ml-Al6 Assault Rifle. However, the directive having come from the NIS, I gave it its due attention. What's your point, Jo? KAFFEE She has no point. She often has no point. It's part of her charm. We're outta here. Thank you. JO My point is that I think code reds still go on down here. Do Code Reds still happen on this base, colonel? KAFFEE Jo, the colonel doesn't need to answer that. JO Yes he does. KAFFEE No, he really doesn't. JO Yeah, he really does. Colonel? JESSEP You know it just hit me. She outranks you, Danny. KAFFEE Yes sir. JESSEP I want to tell you something Danny and listen up 'cause I mean this: You're the luckiest man in the world. There is, believe me gentlemen, nothing sexier on earth than a woman you have to salute in the morning. Promote 'em all I say. JO's not upset. JO's not mad. But she's gonna ask her question 'til she gets an answer. JO Colonel, the practice of code Reds is still condoned by officers on this base, isn't it? JESSEP You see my problem is, of course, that I'm a Colonel. I'll just have to keep taking cold showers 'til they elect some gal President. JO I need an answer to my question, sir. JESSEP Take caution in your tone, Commander. I'm a fair guy, but this fuckin' heat's making me absolutely crazy. You want to know about code reds? On the record I tell you that I discourage the practice in accordance with the NIS directive. Off the record I tell you that it's an invaluable part of close infantry training, and if it happens to go on without my knowledge, so be it. I run my base how I run my base. You want to investigate me, roll the dice and take your chances. I eat breakfast 80 yards away from 4000 Cubans who are trained to kill me. So don't for one second think you're gonna come down here, flash a badge, and make me nervous. A moment of tense silence before -- KAFFEE Let's go. Colonel, I'll just need a copy of Santiago's transfer order. JESSEP What's that? KAFFEE Santiago's transfer order. You guys have paper work on that kind of thing, I just need it for the file. JESSEP For the file. KAFFEE Yeah. JESSEP (pause) Of course you can have a copy of the transfer order. For the file. I'm here to help anyway I can. KAFFEE Thank you. JESSEP You believe that, don't you? Danny? That I'm here to help anyway I can? KAFFEE Of course. JESSEP The corporal'll run you by Ordinance on your way out to the airstrip. You can have all the transfer orders you want. KAFFEE (to JO and SAM) Let's go. The LAWYERS start to leave. JESSEP But you have to ask me nicely. KAFFEE stops. Turns around. Sam and JO stop and turn. KAFFEE I beg your pardon? JESSEP You have to ask me nicely. You see, Danny, I can deal with the bullets and the bombs and the blood. I can deal with the heat and the stress and the fear. I don't want money and I don't want medals. What I want is for you to stand there in that faggoty white uniform, and with your Harvard mouth, extend me some fuckin' courtesy. You gotta ask me nicely. KAFFEE and JESSEP are frozen. Everyone'staring at Kaffee; The OFFICERS at their tables... KENDRICK... SAM... MARKINSON... JO... KAFFEE makes his decision. KAFFEE Colonel Jessep... if it's not too much trouble, I'd like a copy of the transfer order. Sir. JESSEP smiles. JESSEP No problem. HOLD for a moment. JO's very disappointed. JESSEP stands there and watches the LAWYERS as they turn and leave the Officer's Club. JESSEP (continuing) I hate casualties, Matthew. There are casualties even in victory. A marine smothers a grenade and saves his platoon, that marine's a hero. The foundation of the unit, the fabric of this base, the spirit of the Corps, they are things worth fighting for. MARKINSON looks at the ground. JESSEP (continuing) Dawson and Downey, they don't know it, but they're smothering a grenade. MARKINSON looks up as we CUT TO: EXT. ANDREWS AIRFORCE BASE - DUSK As a plane touches down on the runway. It's dusk in Washington and CUT TO: EXT. KAFFEE'S APARTMENT - DAY A little one-bedroom. Just the essential furniture, barely even that. KAFFEE's sitting and watching a baseball came on t.v. He's holding a copy of The Baseball Encyclopedia, normally his favorite reading material, but right now he's having trouble keeping his mind in it. He's holding a baseball bat and fiddling with it. The remnants of a pizza and Yoo-Hoo dinner sit next to him. His white uniform in a pile in the corner. There's a BUZZ at the door. KAFFEE's not expecting anyone. He goes to the door. KAFFEE Who is it? JO (O.S.) It's me. KAFFEE opens the door and JO walks in. KAFFEE I've really missed you, Jo. I was just saying to myself, "It's been almost three hours since I last saw -- " JO Markinson resigned his commission. KAFFEE (pause) When? JO This afternoon. Sometime after we left. KAFFEE I'll talk to him in the morning. JO I already tried, I can't find him. KAFFEE You tried? Joanne, you're coming dangerously close to the textbook definition of interfering with a government investigation. JO hands KAFFEE the file she's been holding. JO I'm Louden Downey's attorney. KAFFEE's stunned. He opens the file and begins to read. JO (continuing) Aunt Ginny. She said she feels like she's known me for years. I suggested that she might feel more comfortable if I were directly involved with the case. She had Louden sign the papers about an hour ago. KAFFEE looks up. Still too stunned to say anything. Then finally... KAFFEE I suppose it's way too much to hope that you're just making this up to bother me. JO Don't worry, I'm not gonna make a motion for separation, you're still lead counsel. KAFFEE hands her back the file. KAFFEE Splendid. JO I think Kendrick ordered the Code Red. (beat) So do you. CUT TO: INT. A HOLDING ROOM IN THE BRIG - NIGHT DAWSON and DOWNEY come to attention as KAFFEE and JO are led in. DAWSON Officer on deck, ten hut. KAFFEE starts in immediately. KAFFEE Did Kendrick order the code red? DAWSON Sir? KAFFEE Don't say sir like I just asked you if you cleaned the latrine. You heard what I said. Did Lt. Kendrick order you guys to give Santiago a code red? DAWSON Yes sir. KAFFEE (to Downey) Did he? DOWNEY Yes sir. KAFFEE You mind telling me why the hell you never mentioned this before? DAWSON You didn't ask us, sir. KAFFEE Cutie-pie shit's not gonna win you a place in my heart, corporal, I get paid no matter how much time you spend in jail. DAWSON Yes

cooking

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

was damn funny. Jo moves close to KAFFEE to say this with a degree of confidentiality. JO I do know you. Daniel AlliStair Kaffee, born June 8th, 1964 at Boston Mercy Hospital. Your father's Lionel Kaffee, former Navy Judge Advocate and Attorney General, of the United States, died 1985. You went to Harvard Law on a Navy scholarship, probably because that's what your father wanted you to do, and now you're just treading water for the three years you've gotta serve in the JAG Corps, just kinda layin' low til you can get out and get a real job. And if that's the situation, that's fine, I won't tell anyone. But my feeling is that if this case is handled in the same fast-food, slick-ass, Persian Bazaar manner with which you seem to handle everything else, something's gonna get missed. And I wouldn't be doing my job if I allowed Dawson and Downey to spend any more time in prison than absolutely necessary, because their attorney had pre- determined the path of least resistance. KAFFEE can't help but be impressed by that speech. KAFFEE Wow. (beat) I'm sexually aroused, Commander. JO I don't think your clients murdered anybody. KAFFEE What are you basing this on? JO There was no intent. KAFFEE The doctor's report says that Santiago died of asphyxiation brought on by acute lactic acidosis, and that the nature of the acidosis strongly suggests poisoning. (beat) Now, I don't know what any of that means, but it sounds pretty bad. JO Santiago died at one a.m. At three the doctor was unable to determine the cause of death, but two hours later he said it was poison. KAFFEE Oh, now I see what you're saying. It had to be Professor Plum in the library with the candlestick. JO I'm gonna speak to your supervisor. KAFFEE Okay. You go straight up Pennsylvania Avenue. It's a big white house with pillars in front. JO Thank you. KAFFEE I don't think you'll have much luck, though. I was assigned by Division, remember? Somebody over there thinks I'm a good lawyer. So while I appreciate your interest and admire your enthusiasm, I think I can pretty much handle things myself. JO Do you know what a code red is? KAFFEE doesn't, but he doesn't say anything. JO (continuing) What a pity. CUT TO: INT. THE BRIG - DAY And an M.P. is leading KAFFEE and SAM down to DAWSON and DOWNEY's cell. M.P. Officer on deck, ten-hut. DAWSON and DOWNEY come to attention. Through the following, the M.P. will unlock the call door and let the lawyers in. DAWSON Sir, Lance Corporal Harold W. Dawson, sir. Rifle Security Company Windward, Second Platoon, Delta. KAFFEE Someone hasn't been working and playing well with others, Harold. DAWSON Sir, yes sir! DOWNEY Sir, PFC Louden Downey. KAFFEE I'm Daniel Kaffee, this is Sam Weinerg, you can sitdown. DAWSON and DOWNEY aren't too comfortable sitting in the presence of officers, but they do as they're told. KAFFEE's pulled out some documents, SAM's sitting on one of the cots taking notes. KAFFEE (continuing; to DAWSON) Is this your signature? DAWSON Yes sir. KAFFEE You don't have to call me sir. (to DOWNEY) Is this your signature? DOWNEY Sir, yes sir. KAFFEE And you certainly don't have to do it twice in one sentence. Harold, what's a Code Red? DAWSON Sir, a Code Red is a disciplinary engagement. KAFFEE What does that mean, exactly? DAWSON Sir, a marine falls out of line, it's up to the men in his unit to get him back on track. KAFFEE What's a garden variety Code Red? DAWSON Sir? KAFFEE Harold, you say sir and I turn around and look for my father. Danny, Daniel, Kaffee. Garden variety; typical. What's a basic Code Red? DAWSON Sir, a marine has refused to bathe on a regular basis. The men in his squad would give him a G.I. shower. KAFFEE What's that? DAWSON Scrub brushes, brillo pads, steel wool... SAM Beautiful. KAFFEE Was the attack on Santiago a Code Red? DAWSON Yes sir. KAFFEE (to DOWNEY) Do you ever talk? DAWSON Sir, Private Downey will answer any direct questions you ask him. KAFFEE Swell. Private Downey, the rag you stuffed in Santiago's mouth, was there poison on it? DOWNEY No sir. KAFFEE Silver polish, turpentine, anti- freeze... DOWNEY No sir. We were gonna shave his head, sir. KAFFEE When all of a sudden...? DOWNEY We saw blood drippinq out of his mouth. Then we pulled the tape off, and there was blood all down his face, sir. That's when Corporal Dawson called the ambulance. KAFFEE tries not to make too big a deal out of this last piece of news. KAFFEE (to DAWSON) Did anyone see you call the ambulance? DAWSON No sir. KAFFEE Were you there when the ambulance got there? DAWSON Yes sir, that's when we were taken under arrest. KAFFEE kinda strolls to the corner of the cell to think for a moment. SAM (to DAWSON) On the night of August 2nd, did you fire a shot across the fenceline into Cuba? DAWSON Yes sir. SAM Why? DAWSON My mirror engaged, sir. KAFFEE (to SAM) His mirror engaged? SAM For each American sentry post there's a Cuban counterpart. They're called mirrors. The corporal's claiming that his mirror was about to fire at him. KAFFEE Santiago's letter to the NIS said you fired illegally. He's saying that the guy, the mirror, he never made a move. DAWSON says nothing. KAFFEE (continuing) Oh, Harold? SAM is staring at DAWSON. KAFFEE (continuing) You see what I'm getting at? If Santiago didn't have anything on you, then why did you give him a Code Red? DAWSON Because he broke the chain of command, sir. KAFFEE He what? DAWSON He went outside his unit, sir. If he had a problem, he should've spoken to me, sir. Then his Sergeant, then Company Commander, then -- KAFFEE Yeah, yeah, alright. Harold, did you assault Santiago with the intent of killing him? DAWSON No sir. KAFFEE What was your intent? DAWSON To train him, sir. KAFFEE Train him to do what? DAWSON Train him to think of his unit before himself. To respect the code. SAM What's the code? DAWSON Unit Corps God Country. SAM I beg your pardon? DAWSON Unit Corps God Country, sir. KAFFEE The Goverrment of the United States wants to charge you two with murder. You want me to go to the prosecutor with unit, corps, god, country? DAWSON stares at KAFFEE. DAWSON That's our code, sir. KAFFEE takes a long moment. He picks up his briefcase and he and SAM move to the door. KAFFEE We'll be back. You guys need anything? Books paper, cigarettes, a ham sandwich? DAWSON Sir. No thank you. Sir. KAFFEE smiles at DAWSON. KAFFEE Harold, I think there's a concept you better start warming up to. DAWSON Sir? KAFFEE I'm the only friend you've got. And as KAFFEE and SAM walk out the open cell door, DAWSON and DOWNEY come to attention and snap a salute. They hold the salute until KAFFEE and SAM are well out of sight, and we CUT TO: INT. KAFFEE'S OFFICE - DAY He's packing up stuff into his briefcase at the end of the work day. Lt. JACK ROSS, a marine lawyer maybe two years older than Kaffee, opens the door and walks in.. ROSS Dan Kaffee. KAFFEE Sailin' Jack Ross. ROSS Welcome to the big time. KAFFEE You think so? ROSS I hope for Dawson and Downey's sake you practice law better than you play softball. KAFFEE Unfortunately for Dawson and Downey, I don't do anything better than I play softball. What are we lookin' at? ROSS They plead guilty to manslaughter, I'll drop the conspiracy and the conduct unbecoming. 20 years, they'll be home in half that time. KAFFEE I want twelve. ROSS Can't do it. KAFFEE They called the ambulance, Jack. ROSS I don't care if they called the Avon Lady, they killed a marine. KAFFEE The rag was tested for poison. The autopsy, lab report, even the initial E.R. and C.O.D. reports. They all say the same thing: Maybe, maybe not. ROSS The Chief of Internal Medicine at the Guantanamo Bay Naval hospital says he's sure. KAFFEE What do you know about Code Reds? ROSS smiles and shakes his head. ROSS Oh man. He closes the office door. ROSS (continuing) Are we off the record? KAFFEE You tell me. ROSS (pause) I'm gonna give you the twelve years, but before you go getting yourself into trouble tomorrow, you should know this: The platoon commander Lt. Jonathan Kendrick, had a meeting with the men. And he specifically told them not to touch Santiago. KAFFEE holds for a moment. Dawson and Downey neglected to mention this... He packs up his briefcase and cleats. KAFFEE I'll talk to you when I get back. ROSS Hey, we got a little four-on-four going tomorrow night. When does your plane get in? CUT TO: EXT. THE PARKING LOT - DUSK It's dusk and people on the base are going home from work. We can see the flag being lowered in the background. KAFFEE's walking toward his car. JO intercepts him and starts walking along with him. JO Hi there. KAFFEE Any luck getting me replaced? JO Is there anyone in this command that you don't either drink or play softball with? KAFFEE Commander -- JO Listen, I came to make peace. We started off on the wrong foot. What do you say? Friends? KAFFEE Look, I don't -- JO By the way, I brought Downey some comic books he was asking for. The kid, Kaffee, I swear, he doesn't know where he is, he doesn't even know why he's been arrested. KAFFEE Commander -- JO You can call me Joanne. KAFFEE Joanne -- JO or Jo. KAFFEE Jo? JO Yes. KAFFEE Jo, if you ever speak to a client of mine again without my permission, I'll have you disbarred. Friends? JO I had authorization. KAFFEE From where? JO Downey's closest living relative, Ginny Miller, his aunt on his mother's side. KAFFEE You got authorization from Aunt Ginny? JO I gave her a call like you asked. Very nice woman, we talked for about an hour. KAFFEE You got authorization from Aunt Ginny. JO Perfectly within my province. KAFFEE Does Aunt Ginny have a barn? We can hold the trial there. I can sew the costumes, and maybe his Uncle Goober can be the judge. Jo steps aside and lets KAFFEE got into his car. JO I'm going to Cuba with you tomorrow. KAFFEE And the hits just keep on comin'. HOLD on KAFFEE and Jo. JO smiles. CUT TO: EXT. SIDEWALK NEWSSTAND - DUSK KAFFEE IN HIS CAR He's driving down a Washington street and pulls over at a sidewalk newsstand. He gets out of his car, leaving the lights flashing, and runs up to the newsstand. As he plunks his 35 cents down and picks up a newspaper, he engages in his daily ritual with LUTHER, the newsstand operator. KAFFEE How's it goin', Luther? LUTHER Another day, another dollar, captain. KAFFEE You gotta play 'em as they lay, Luther. LUTHER What comes around, goes around, you know what I'm sayin'. KAFFEE If you can't beat 'em, join 'em. LUTHER Hey, if you've got your health, you got everything. KAFFEE Love makes the world go round. I'll see you tomorrow, Luther. And we CUT TO: INT. SAM'S LIVING ROOM - NIGHT A baby sleeping in a crib pull rack to reveal SAM is standing over the crib. KAFFEE's sitting on a beer. SAM When Nancy gets back, you're my witness. The baby spoke. My daughter said a word. KAFFEE Your daughter made a sound, Sam, I'm not sure it was a word. SAM Oh come on, it was a word. KAFFEE Okay. SAM You heard her. The girl sat here, pointed, and said "Pa". She did. She said "Pa". KAFFEE She was pointing at a doorknob. SAM That's right. Pointing, as if to say, "Pa, look, a doorknob". SAM joins KAFFEE in the living room. KAFFEE Jack Ross came to see me today. He offered me twelve years. SAM That's what you wanted. KAFFEE I know, and I'll... I guess, I mean -- (beat) I'll take it. SAM So? KAFFEE It took albout 45 seconds. He barely put up a fight. SAM (beat) Danny, take the twelve years, it's a gift. KAFFEE finishes off his beer, and stands. KAFFEE You don't believe their story, do you? You think they ought to go to jail for the rest of their lives. SAM I believe every word they said. And I think they ought to go to jail for the rest of their lives. KAFFEE nods and puts down the empty beer bottle. KAFFEE I'll see you tomorrow. Sam opens the front door for him and they stand out on the stoop for a moment. SAM Remember to wear your whites, it's hot down there. KAFFEE I don't like the whites. SAM Nobody likes the whites, but we're going to Cuba in August. You got Dramamine? KAFFEE Dramamine keeps you cool? SAM Dramamine keeps you from throwing up, you get sick when you fly. KAFFEE I get sick when I fly because I'm afraid of crashing into a large mountain, I don't think Dramamine'll help. SAM I've got some oregano, I hear that works pretty good. KAFFEE Yeah, right. KAFFEE starts toward his car, then turns around. KAFFEE (continuing) You know, Ross said the strangest thing to me right before I left. He said the platoon commander Lieutenant Jonathan Kendrick had a meeting with the men and specifically told them not to touch Santiago. SAM So? KAFFEE I never mentioned Kendrick. I don't even know who he is. (beat) What the hell. (beat) I'll see you tomorrow. We hold for a moment on KAFFEE as he walks to his car, then CUT TO: EXT. THE AIRSTRIP AT GUANTANAMO BAY - DAY The whole place, in stark contrast to the Washington Navy Yard, is ready to go to war. Fighter jets line the tarmac. Ground crews re-fuel planes. Hurried activity. A 36 seat Airforce Jet rolls to a stop on the tarmac and a stair unit is brought up. HOWARD, a marine corporal, is waiting by the stairway as the passengers begin to got off. Mostly MARINES, a few SAILORS, a couple of CIVILIANS, and KAFFEE, JO and SAM. KAFFEE and SAM are wearing their summer whites, JO is in khakis. KAFFEE and SAM stare out at what they see: They're not in Kansas anymore. HOWARD shouts over the noise from the planes. HOWARD Lieutenants Kaffee and Weinberg? KAFFEE (shouting) Yeah. JO Commander Galloway. HOWARD I'm Corporal Howard, ma'am, I'm to escort you to the Windward side of the base. JO Thank you. HOWARD I've got some camouflage jackets in the back of the jeep, sirs, I'll have to ask you both to put them on. KAFFEE Camouflage jackets? HOWARD Regulations, sir. We'll be riding pretty close to the fenceline. The Cubans see an officer wearing white, they think it's someone they might wanna take a shot at. KAFFEE turns and glares at SAM. KAFFEE Good call, Sam. CUT TO: EXT. CUBAN ROAD - THE JEEP - DAY Tearing along down the road, and now we see a beautiful expanse of water, maybe 1000 yards across. It's a section of Guantanamo Bay. HOWARD (shouting) We'll just hop on the ferry and be over there in no time. KAFFEE (shouting) Whoa! Hold it! We gotta take a boat?! HOWARD Yes sir, to get to the other side of the bay. KAFFEE Nobody said anything about a boat. HOWARD (shouting) Is there a problem, sir? KAFFEE (shouting) No. No problem. I'm just not that crazy about boats, that's all. JO (shouting) Jesus Christ, Kaffee, you're in the Navy for cryin' out loud! KAFFEE (shouting) Nobody likes her very much. HOWARD (shouting) Yes sir. The jeep drives on and we CUT TO: JESSEP, MARKINSON and KENDRICK are standing as the LAWYERS are led in. JESSEP Nathan Jessep, come on in and siddown. KAFFEE Thank you. I'm Daniel Kaffee, I'm the attorney for Dawson and Downey. This is Joanne Galloway, she's observing and evaluating -- JO (shaking hands) Colonel. JESSEP Pleased to meet you, Commander. KAFFEE Sam Weinberg. He has no responsibility here whatsoever. JESSEP I've asked Captain Markinson and Lt. Kendrick to join us. MARKINSON Lt. Kaffee, I had the pleasure of seeing your father once. I was a teenager and he spoke at my high school. KAFFEE smiles and nods. JESSEP Lionel Kaffee? KAFFEE Yes sir. JESSEP Well what do you know. Son, this man's dad once made a lot of enemies down in your neck of the woods. Jefferson vs. Madison County School District. The folks down there said a little black girl couldn't go to an all white school, Lionel Kaffee said we'll just see about that. How the hell is your dad? KAFFEE He passed away seven years ago, colonel. JESSEP (pause) Well... don't I feel like the fuckin, asshole. KAFFEE Not at all, sir. JESSEP Well, what can we do for you, Danny. KAFFEE Not much at all, sir, I'm afraid. This is really a formality more than anything else. The JAG Corps insists that I interview all the relevant witnesses. JO The JAG Corps can be demanding that way. JESSEP smiles. JESSEP Jonanthan'll take you out and show you what you wanna see, then we can all hook up for lunch, how does that sound? KAFFEE Fine, sir. CUT TO: EXT. THE FENCELINE - DAY A SQUAD OF MARINES jogs by as a jeep carrying KENDRICK and the three LAWYERS cruises down the road. We FOLLOW the jeep. KAFFEE I understand you had a meeting with your men that afternoon. KENDRICK Yes. KAFFEE What'd you guys talk about? KENDRICK I told the men that there was an informer among us. And that despite any desire they might have to seek retribution, Private Santiago was not to be harmed in any way. KAFFEE What time was that meeting? KENDRICK Sixteen-hundred. KAFFEE turns around and looks at SAM. SAM (leaning forward) Four o'clock. CUT TO: INT. THE BARRACKS CORRIDOR - DAY KENDRICK leads the LAWYERS down the corridor to Santiago's room. Two strips of tape which warn DO NOT ENTER - AT ORDER OF THE MILITARY POLICE are crisscrossed over the closed door. They open the door and step under the tape and walk into INT. SANTIAGO'S ROOM - DAY The room is exactly an it was left that night. The un-made bed, the chair knocked over... The LAWYERS look around for a moment. The room is sparse. Kaffee goes to the closet and opens it: A row of uniforms hanging neatly. He thumbs through then for a second, but there's nothing there. He opens the footlocker: Socks, underwear... all folded to marine corp precision... A shaving kit, a couple of photographs, a pad of writing paper and some envelopes... Kaffee closes the footlocker. KAFFEE Sam, somebody should see about getting this stuff to his parents. We don't need it anymore. KENDRICK Actually, the uniforms belong to the marine corps. The LAWYERS take a moment. KAFFEE Lt. Kendrick -- can I call you Jon? KENDRICK No, you may not. KAFFEE (beat) Have I done something to offend you? KENDRICK No, I like all you Navy boys. Every time we've gotta go someplace and fight, you fellas always give us a ride. JO Lt. Kendrick, do you think Santiago was murdered? KENDRICK Commander, I believe in God, and in his son Jesus Christ, and because I do, I can say this: Private Santiago is dead and that's a tragedy. But he's dead because he had no code. He's dead because he had no honor. And God was watching. SAM turns to KAFFEE. SAM How do you feel about that theory? KAFFEE (beat) Sounds good. Let's move on. SAM and KENDRICK walk out the door. JO stops KAFFEE. JO You planning on doing any investigating or are you just gonna take the guided tour? KAFFEE (beat) I'm pacing myself. CUT TO: INT. THE OFFICERS CLUB - DAY JESSEP, MARKINSON, KENDRICK and the LAWYERS are seated at a table in the corner. Stewards clear the lunch dishes and pour coffee. Jessep is finishing a story. JESSEP ...And they spent the next three hours running around, looking for Americans to surrender to. JESSEP laughs. KENDRICK joins him. SAM and KAFFEE force a laugh. MARKINSON forces a smile. JO remains silent. JESSEP (continuing; to the STEWARDS) That was delicious, men, thank you. STEWARD Our pleasure, sir. KAFFEE Colonel just need to ask you a couple of questions about August 6th. JESSEP Shoot. KAFFEE On the morning of the sixth, you were contacted by an NIS angent who said that Santiago had tipped him off to an illegal fenceline shooting. JESSEP Yes. KAFFEE Santiago was gonna reveal the person's name in exchange for a transfer. An I getting this right? JESSEP Yes. KAFFEE If you feel there are any details that I'm missing, you should free to speak up. JESSEP's not quite sure what to say to this Navy Lawyer Lieutenant-Smartass guy who just gave him permission to speak freely on his own base. JESSEP Thank you. KAFFEE Now it was at this point that you called Captain Markinson and Lt. Kendrick into your office? JESSEP Yes. KAFFEE And what happened then? JESSEP We agreed that for his own safety, Santiago should be transferred off the base. Here's something else KAFFEE didn't know. Neither did Jo. SAM jots something down on a small notepad. MARKINSON doesn't flinch. KAFFEE Santiago was set to be transferred? JESSEP On the first available flight to the states. Six the next morning. Three hours too late as it turned out. KAFFEE nods. KAFFEE Yeah. There's silence for a moment. KAFFEE takes a sip of his coffee. Then drains the cup and puts it down. KAFFEE (continuing) Alright, that's all I have. Thanks very much for your time. KENDRICK The corporal's got the jeep outside, he'll take you back to the airstrip. KAFFEE (standing) Thank you. JO Wait a minute, I've got some questions. KAFFEE No you don't. JO Yes I do. KAFFEE No you don't. JO Colonel, on the morning that Santiago died, did you meet with Doctor Stone between three and five? KAFFEE Jo -- JESSEP Of course I met with the doctor. One of my men was dead. KAFFEE (to JO) See? The man was dead. Let's go. JO (to JESSEP) I was wondering if you've ever heard the term Code Red. KAFFEE Jo -- JESSEP I've heard the term, yes. JO Colonel, this past February, you received a cautionary memo from the Naval Investigative Service, warning that the practice of enlisted men disciplining their own wasn't to be condoned by officers. JESSEP I submit to you that whoever wrote that memo has never served on the working end of a Soviet-made Cuban Ml-Al6 Assault Rifle. However, the directive having come from the NIS, I gave it its due attention. What's your point, Jo? KAFFEE She has no point. She often has no point. It's part of her charm. We're outta here. Thank you. JO My point is that I think code reds still go on down here. Do Code Reds still happen on this base, colonel? KAFFEE Jo, the colonel doesn't need to answer that. JO Yes he does. KAFFEE No, he really doesn't. JO Yeah, he really does. Colonel? JESSEP You know it just hit me. She outranks you, Danny. KAFFEE Yes sir. JESSEP I want to tell you something Danny and listen up 'cause I mean this: You're the luckiest man in the world. There is, believe me gentlemen, nothing sexier on earth than a woman you have to salute in the morning. Promote 'em all I say. JO's not upset. JO's not mad. But she's gonna ask her question 'til she gets an answer. JO Colonel, the practice of code Reds is still condoned by officers on this base, isn't it? JESSEP You see my problem is, of course, that I'm a Colonel. I'll just have to keep taking cold showers 'til they elect some gal President. JO I need an answer to my question, sir. JESSEP Take caution in your tone, Commander. I'm a fair guy, but this fuckin' heat's making me absolutely crazy. You want to know about code reds? On the record I tell you that I discourage the practice in accordance with the NIS directive. Off the record I tell you that it's an invaluable part of close infantry training, and if it happens to go on without my knowledge, so be it. I run my base how I run my base. You want to investigate me, roll the dice and take your chances. I eat breakfast 80 yards away from 4000 Cubans who are trained to kill me. So don't for one second think you're gonna come down here, flash a badge, and make me nervous. A moment of tense silence before -- KAFFEE Let's go. Colonel, I'll just need a copy of Santiago's transfer order. JESSEP What's that? KAFFEE Santiago's transfer order. You guys have paper work on that kind of thing, I just need it for the file. JESSEP For the file. KAFFEE Yeah. JESSEP (pause) Of course you can have a copy of the transfer order. For the file. I'm here to help anyway I can. KAFFEE Thank you. JESSEP You believe that, don't you? Danny? That I'm here to help anyway I can? KAFFEE Of course. JESSEP The corporal'll run you by Ordinance on your way out to the airstrip. You can have all the transfer orders you want. KAFFEE (to JO and SAM) Let's go. The LAWYERS start to leave. JESSEP But you have to ask me nicely. KAFFEE stops. Turns around. Sam and JO stop and turn. KAFFEE I beg your pardon? JESSEP You have to ask me nicely. You see, Danny, I can deal with the bullets and the bombs and the blood. I can deal with the heat and the stress and the fear. I don't want money and I don't want medals. What I want is for you to stand there in that faggoty white uniform, and with your Harvard mouth, extend me some fuckin' courtesy. You gotta ask me nicely. KAFFEE and JESSEP are frozen. Everyone'staring at Kaffee; The OFFICERS at their tables... KENDRICK... SAM... MARKINSON... JO... KAFFEE makes his decision. KAFFEE Colonel Jessep... if it's not too much trouble, I'd like a copy of the transfer order. Sir. JESSEP smiles. JESSEP No problem. HOLD for a moment. JO's very disappointed. JESSEP stands there and watches the LAWYERS as they turn and leave the Officer's Club. JESSEP (continuing) I hate casualties, Matthew. There are casualties even in victory. A marine smothers a grenade and saves his platoon, that marine's a hero. The foundation of the unit, the fabric of this base, the spirit of the Corps, they are things worth fighting for. MARKINSON looks at the ground. JESSEP (continuing) Dawson and Downey, they don't know it, but they're smothering a grenade. MARKINSON looks up as we CUT TO: EXT. ANDREWS AIRFORCE BASE - DUSK As a plane touches down on the runway. It's dusk in Washington and CUT TO: EXT. KAFFEE'S APARTMENT - DAY A little one-bedroom. Just the essential furniture, barely even that. KAFFEE's sitting and watching a baseball came on t.v. He's holding a copy of The Baseball Encyclopedia, normally his favorite reading material, but right now he's having trouble keeping his mind in it. He's holding a baseball bat and fiddling with it. The remnants of a pizza and Yoo-Hoo dinner sit next to him. His white uniform in a pile in the corner. There's a BUZZ at the door. KAFFEE's not expecting anyone. He goes to the door. KAFFEE Who is it? JO (O.S.) It's me. KAFFEE opens the door and JO walks in. KAFFEE I've really missed you, Jo. I was just saying to myself, "It's been almost three hours since I last saw -- " JO Markinson resigned his commission. KAFFEE (pause) When? JO This afternoon. Sometime after we left. KAFFEE I'll talk to him in the morning. JO I already tried, I can't find him. KAFFEE You tried? Joanne, you're coming dangerously close to the textbook definition of interfering with a government investigation. JO hands KAFFEE the file she's been holding. JO I'm Louden Downey's attorney. KAFFEE's stunned. He opens the file and begins to read. JO (continuing) Aunt Ginny. She said she feels like she's known me for years. I suggested that she might feel more comfortable if I were directly involved with the case. She had Louden sign the papers about an hour ago. KAFFEE looks up. Still too stunned to say anything. Then finally... KAFFEE I suppose it's way too much to hope that you're just making this up to bother me. JO Don't worry, I'm not gonna make a motion for separation, you're still lead counsel. KAFFEE hands her back the file. KAFFEE Splendid. JO I think Kendrick ordered the Code Red. (beat) So do you. CUT TO: INT. A HOLDING ROOM IN THE BRIG - NIGHT DAWSON and DOWNEY come to attention as KAFFEE and JO are led in. DAWSON Officer on deck, ten hut. KAFFEE starts in immediately. KAFFEE Did Kendrick order the code red? DAWSON Sir? KAFFEE Don't say sir like I just asked you if you cleaned the latrine. You heard what I said. Did Lt. Kendrick order you guys to give Santiago a code red? DAWSON Yes sir. KAFFEE (to Downey) Did he? DOWNEY Yes sir. KAFFEE You mind telling me why the hell you never mentioned this before? DAWSON You didn't ask us, sir. KAFFEE Cutie-pie shit's not gonna win you a place in my heart, corporal, I get paid no matter how much time you spend in jail. DAWSON Yes

straight

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

was damn funny. Jo moves close to KAFFEE to say this with a degree of confidentiality. JO I do know you. Daniel AlliStair Kaffee, born June 8th, 1964 at Boston Mercy Hospital. Your father's Lionel Kaffee, former Navy Judge Advocate and Attorney General, of the United States, died 1985. You went to Harvard Law on a Navy scholarship, probably because that's what your father wanted you to do, and now you're just treading water for the three years you've gotta serve in the JAG Corps, just kinda layin' low til you can get out and get a real job. And if that's the situation, that's fine, I won't tell anyone. But my feeling is that if this case is handled in the same fast-food, slick-ass, Persian Bazaar manner with which you seem to handle everything else, something's gonna get missed. And I wouldn't be doing my job if I allowed Dawson and Downey to spend any more time in prison than absolutely necessary, because their attorney had pre- determined the path of least resistance. KAFFEE can't help but be impressed by that speech. KAFFEE Wow. (beat) I'm sexually aroused, Commander. JO I don't think your clients murdered anybody. KAFFEE What are you basing this on? JO There was no intent. KAFFEE The doctor's report says that Santiago died of asphyxiation brought on by acute lactic acidosis, and that the nature of the acidosis strongly suggests poisoning. (beat) Now, I don't know what any of that means, but it sounds pretty bad. JO Santiago died at one a.m. At three the doctor was unable to determine the cause of death, but two hours later he said it was poison. KAFFEE Oh, now I see what you're saying. It had to be Professor Plum in the library with the candlestick. JO I'm gonna speak to your supervisor. KAFFEE Okay. You go straight up Pennsylvania Avenue. It's a big white house with pillars in front. JO Thank you. KAFFEE I don't think you'll have much luck, though. I was assigned by Division, remember? Somebody over there thinks I'm a good lawyer. So while I appreciate your interest and admire your enthusiasm, I think I can pretty much handle things myself. JO Do you know what a code red is? KAFFEE doesn't, but he doesn't say anything. JO (continuing) What a pity. CUT TO: INT. THE BRIG - DAY And an M.P. is leading KAFFEE and SAM down to DAWSON and DOWNEY's cell. M.P. Officer on deck, ten-hut. DAWSON and DOWNEY come to attention. Through the following, the M.P. will unlock the call door and let the lawyers in. DAWSON Sir, Lance Corporal Harold W. Dawson, sir. Rifle Security Company Windward, Second Platoon, Delta. KAFFEE Someone hasn't been working and playing well with others, Harold. DAWSON Sir, yes sir! DOWNEY Sir, PFC Louden Downey. KAFFEE I'm Daniel Kaffee, this is Sam Weinerg, you can sitdown. DAWSON and DOWNEY aren't too comfortable sitting in the presence of officers, but they do as they're told. KAFFEE's pulled out some documents, SAM's sitting on one of the cots taking notes. KAFFEE (continuing; to DAWSON) Is this your signature? DAWSON Yes sir. KAFFEE You don't have to call me sir. (to DOWNEY) Is this your signature? DOWNEY Sir, yes sir. KAFFEE And you certainly don't have to do it twice in one sentence. Harold, what's a Code Red? DAWSON Sir, a Code Red is a disciplinary engagement. KAFFEE What does that mean, exactly? DAWSON Sir, a marine falls out of line, it's up to the men in his unit to get him back on track. KAFFEE What's a garden variety Code Red? DAWSON Sir? KAFFEE Harold, you say sir and I turn around and look for my father. Danny, Daniel, Kaffee. Garden variety; typical. What's a basic Code Red? DAWSON Sir, a marine has refused to bathe on a regular basis. The men in his squad would give him a G.I. shower. KAFFEE What's that? DAWSON Scrub brushes, brillo pads, steel wool... SAM Beautiful. KAFFEE Was the attack on Santiago a Code Red? DAWSON Yes sir. KAFFEE (to DOWNEY) Do you ever talk? DAWSON Sir, Private Downey will answer any direct questions you ask him. KAFFEE Swell. Private Downey, the rag you stuffed in Santiago's mouth, was there poison on it? DOWNEY No sir. KAFFEE Silver polish, turpentine, anti- freeze... DOWNEY No sir. We were gonna shave his head, sir. KAFFEE When all of a sudden...? DOWNEY We saw blood drippinq out of his mouth. Then we pulled the tape off, and there was blood all down his face, sir. That's when Corporal Dawson called the ambulance. KAFFEE tries not to make too big a deal out of this last piece of news. KAFFEE (to DAWSON) Did anyone see you call the ambulance? DAWSON No sir. KAFFEE Were you there when the ambulance got there? DAWSON Yes sir, that's when we were taken under arrest. KAFFEE kinda strolls to the corner of the cell to think for a moment. SAM (to DAWSON) On the night of August 2nd, did you fire a shot across the fenceline into Cuba? DAWSON Yes sir. SAM Why? DAWSON My mirror engaged, sir. KAFFEE (to SAM) His mirror engaged? SAM For each American sentry post there's a Cuban counterpart. They're called mirrors. The corporal's claiming that his mirror was about to fire at him. KAFFEE Santiago's letter to the NIS said you fired illegally. He's saying that the guy, the mirror, he never made a move. DAWSON says nothing. KAFFEE (continuing) Oh, Harold? SAM is staring at DAWSON. KAFFEE (continuing) You see what I'm getting at? If Santiago didn't have anything on you, then why did you give him a Code Red? DAWSON Because he broke the chain of command, sir. KAFFEE He what? DAWSON He went outside his unit, sir. If he had a problem, he should've spoken to me, sir. Then his Sergeant, then Company Commander, then -- KAFFEE Yeah, yeah, alright. Harold, did you assault Santiago with the intent of killing him? DAWSON No sir. KAFFEE What was your intent? DAWSON To train him, sir. KAFFEE Train him to do what? DAWSON Train him to think of his unit before himself. To respect the code. SAM What's the code? DAWSON Unit Corps God Country. SAM I beg your pardon? DAWSON Unit Corps God Country, sir. KAFFEE The Goverrment of the United States wants to charge you two with murder. You want me to go to the prosecutor with unit, corps, god, country? DAWSON stares at KAFFEE. DAWSON That's our code, sir. KAFFEE takes a long moment. He picks up his briefcase and he and SAM move to the door. KAFFEE We'll be back. You guys need anything? Books paper, cigarettes, a ham sandwich? DAWSON Sir. No thank you. Sir. KAFFEE smiles at DAWSON. KAFFEE Harold, I think there's a concept you better start warming up to. DAWSON Sir? KAFFEE I'm the only friend you've got. And as KAFFEE and SAM walk out the open cell door, DAWSON and DOWNEY come to attention and snap a salute. They hold the salute until KAFFEE and SAM are well out of sight, and we CUT TO: INT. KAFFEE'S OFFICE - DAY He's packing up stuff into his briefcase at the end of the work day. Lt. JACK ROSS, a marine lawyer maybe two years older than Kaffee, opens the door and walks in.. ROSS Dan Kaffee. KAFFEE Sailin' Jack Ross. ROSS Welcome to the big time. KAFFEE You think so? ROSS I hope for Dawson and Downey's sake you practice law better than you play softball. KAFFEE Unfortunately for Dawson and Downey, I don't do anything better than I play softball. What are we lookin' at? ROSS They plead guilty to manslaughter, I'll drop the conspiracy and the conduct unbecoming. 20 years, they'll be home in half that time. KAFFEE I want twelve. ROSS Can't do it. KAFFEE They called the ambulance, Jack. ROSS I don't care if they called the Avon Lady, they killed a marine. KAFFEE The rag was tested for poison. The autopsy, lab report, even the initial E.R. and C.O.D. reports. They all say the same thing: Maybe, maybe not. ROSS The Chief of Internal Medicine at the Guantanamo Bay Naval hospital says he's sure. KAFFEE What do you know about Code Reds? ROSS smiles and shakes his head. ROSS Oh man. He closes the office door. ROSS (continuing) Are we off the record? KAFFEE You tell me. ROSS (pause) I'm gonna give you the twelve years, but before you go getting yourself into trouble tomorrow, you should know this: The platoon commander Lt. Jonathan Kendrick, had a meeting with the men. And he specifically told them not to touch Santiago. KAFFEE holds for a moment. Dawson and Downey neglected to mention this... He packs up his briefcase and cleats. KAFFEE I'll talk to you when I get back. ROSS Hey, we got a little four-on-four going tomorrow night. When does your plane get in? CUT TO: EXT. THE PARKING LOT - DUSK It's dusk and people on the base are going home from work. We can see the flag being lowered in the background. KAFFEE's walking toward his car. JO intercepts him and starts walking along with him. JO Hi there. KAFFEE Any luck getting me replaced? JO Is there anyone in this command that you don't either drink or play softball with? KAFFEE Commander -- JO Listen, I came to make peace. We started off on the wrong foot. What do you say? Friends? KAFFEE Look, I don't -- JO By the way, I brought Downey some comic books he was asking for. The kid, Kaffee, I swear, he doesn't know where he is, he doesn't even know why he's been arrested. KAFFEE Commander -- JO You can call me Joanne. KAFFEE Joanne -- JO or Jo. KAFFEE Jo? JO Yes. KAFFEE Jo, if you ever speak to a client of mine again without my permission, I'll have you disbarred. Friends? JO I had authorization. KAFFEE From where? JO Downey's closest living relative, Ginny Miller, his aunt on his mother's side. KAFFEE You got authorization from Aunt Ginny? JO I gave her a call like you asked. Very nice woman, we talked for about an hour. KAFFEE You got authorization from Aunt Ginny. JO Perfectly within my province. KAFFEE Does Aunt Ginny have a barn? We can hold the trial there. I can sew the costumes, and maybe his Uncle Goober can be the judge. Jo steps aside and lets KAFFEE got into his car. JO I'm going to Cuba with you tomorrow. KAFFEE And the hits just keep on comin'. HOLD on KAFFEE and Jo. JO smiles. CUT TO: EXT. SIDEWALK NEWSSTAND - DUSK KAFFEE IN HIS CAR He's driving down a Washington street and pulls over at a sidewalk newsstand. He gets out of his car, leaving the lights flashing, and runs up to the newsstand. As he plunks his 35 cents down and picks up a newspaper, he engages in his daily ritual with LUTHER, the newsstand operator. KAFFEE How's it goin', Luther? LUTHER Another day, another dollar, captain. KAFFEE You gotta play 'em as they lay, Luther. LUTHER What comes around, goes around, you know what I'm sayin'. KAFFEE If you can't beat 'em, join 'em. LUTHER Hey, if you've got your health, you got everything. KAFFEE Love makes the world go round. I'll see you tomorrow, Luther. And we CUT TO: INT. SAM'S LIVING ROOM - NIGHT A baby sleeping in a crib pull rack to reveal SAM is standing over the crib. KAFFEE's sitting on a beer. SAM When Nancy gets back, you're my witness. The baby spoke. My daughter said a word. KAFFEE Your daughter made a sound, Sam, I'm not sure it was a word. SAM Oh come on, it was a word. KAFFEE Okay. SAM You heard her. The girl sat here, pointed, and said "Pa". She did. She said "Pa". KAFFEE She was pointing at a doorknob. SAM That's right. Pointing, as if to say, "Pa, look, a doorknob". SAM joins KAFFEE in the living room. KAFFEE Jack Ross came to see me today. He offered me twelve years. SAM That's what you wanted. KAFFEE I know, and I'll... I guess, I mean -- (beat) I'll take it. SAM So? KAFFEE It took albout 45 seconds. He barely put up a fight. SAM (beat) Danny, take the twelve years, it's a gift. KAFFEE finishes off his beer, and stands. KAFFEE You don't believe their story, do you? You think they ought to go to jail for the rest of their lives. SAM I believe every word they said. And I think they ought to go to jail for the rest of their lives. KAFFEE nods and puts down the empty beer bottle. KAFFEE I'll see you tomorrow. Sam opens the front door for him and they stand out on the stoop for a moment. SAM Remember to wear your whites, it's hot down there. KAFFEE I don't like the whites. SAM Nobody likes the whites, but we're going to Cuba in August. You got Dramamine? KAFFEE Dramamine keeps you cool? SAM Dramamine keeps you from throwing up, you get sick when you fly. KAFFEE I get sick when I fly because I'm afraid of crashing into a large mountain, I don't think Dramamine'll help. SAM I've got some oregano, I hear that works pretty good. KAFFEE Yeah, right. KAFFEE starts toward his car, then turns around. KAFFEE (continuing) You know, Ross said the strangest thing to me right before I left. He said the platoon commander Lieutenant Jonathan Kendrick had a meeting with the men and specifically told them not to touch Santiago. SAM So? KAFFEE I never mentioned Kendrick. I don't even know who he is. (beat) What the hell. (beat) I'll see you tomorrow. We hold for a moment on KAFFEE as he walks to his car, then CUT TO: EXT. THE AIRSTRIP AT GUANTANAMO BAY - DAY The whole place, in stark contrast to the Washington Navy Yard, is ready to go to war. Fighter jets line the tarmac. Ground crews re-fuel planes. Hurried activity. A 36 seat Airforce Jet rolls to a stop on the tarmac and a stair unit is brought up. HOWARD, a marine corporal, is waiting by the stairway as the passengers begin to got off. Mostly MARINES, a few SAILORS, a couple of CIVILIANS, and KAFFEE, JO and SAM. KAFFEE and SAM are wearing their summer whites, JO is in khakis. KAFFEE and SAM stare out at what they see: They're not in Kansas anymore. HOWARD shouts over the noise from the planes. HOWARD Lieutenants Kaffee and Weinberg? KAFFEE (shouting) Yeah. JO Commander Galloway. HOWARD I'm Corporal Howard, ma'am, I'm to escort you to the Windward side of the base. JO Thank you. HOWARD I've got some camouflage jackets in the back of the jeep, sirs, I'll have to ask you both to put them on. KAFFEE Camouflage jackets? HOWARD Regulations, sir. We'll be riding pretty close to the fenceline. The Cubans see an officer wearing white, they think it's someone they might wanna take a shot at. KAFFEE turns and glares at SAM. KAFFEE Good call, Sam. CUT TO: EXT. CUBAN ROAD - THE JEEP - DAY Tearing along down the road, and now we see a beautiful expanse of water, maybe 1000 yards across. It's a section of Guantanamo Bay. HOWARD (shouting) We'll just hop on the ferry and be over there in no time. KAFFEE (shouting) Whoa! Hold it! We gotta take a boat?! HOWARD Yes sir, to get to the other side of the bay. KAFFEE Nobody said anything about a boat. HOWARD (shouting) Is there a problem, sir? KAFFEE (shouting) No. No problem. I'm just not that crazy about boats, that's all. JO (shouting) Jesus Christ, Kaffee, you're in the Navy for cryin' out loud! KAFFEE (shouting) Nobody likes her very much. HOWARD (shouting) Yes sir. The jeep drives on and we CUT TO: JESSEP, MARKINSON and KENDRICK are standing as the LAWYERS are led in. JESSEP Nathan Jessep, come on in and siddown. KAFFEE Thank you. I'm Daniel Kaffee, I'm the attorney for Dawson and Downey. This is Joanne Galloway, she's observing and evaluating -- JO (shaking hands) Colonel. JESSEP Pleased to meet you, Commander. KAFFEE Sam Weinberg. He has no responsibility here whatsoever. JESSEP I've asked Captain Markinson and Lt. Kendrick to join us. MARKINSON Lt. Kaffee, I had the pleasure of seeing your father once. I was a teenager and he spoke at my high school. KAFFEE smiles and nods. JESSEP Lionel Kaffee? KAFFEE Yes sir. JESSEP Well what do you know. Son, this man's dad once made a lot of enemies down in your neck of the woods. Jefferson vs. Madison County School District. The folks down there said a little black girl couldn't go to an all white school, Lionel Kaffee said we'll just see about that. How the hell is your dad? KAFFEE He passed away seven years ago, colonel. JESSEP (pause) Well... don't I feel like the fuckin, asshole. KAFFEE Not at all, sir. JESSEP Well, what can we do for you, Danny. KAFFEE Not much at all, sir, I'm afraid. This is really a formality more than anything else. The JAG Corps insists that I interview all the relevant witnesses. JO The JAG Corps can be demanding that way. JESSEP smiles. JESSEP Jonanthan'll take you out and show you what you wanna see, then we can all hook up for lunch, how does that sound? KAFFEE Fine, sir. CUT TO: EXT. THE FENCELINE - DAY A SQUAD OF MARINES jogs by as a jeep carrying KENDRICK and the three LAWYERS cruises down the road. We FOLLOW the jeep. KAFFEE I understand you had a meeting with your men that afternoon. KENDRICK Yes. KAFFEE What'd you guys talk about? KENDRICK I told the men that there was an informer among us. And that despite any desire they might have to seek retribution, Private Santiago was not to be harmed in any way. KAFFEE What time was that meeting? KENDRICK Sixteen-hundred. KAFFEE turns around and looks at SAM. SAM (leaning forward) Four o'clock. CUT TO: INT. THE BARRACKS CORRIDOR - DAY KENDRICK leads the LAWYERS down the corridor to Santiago's room. Two strips of tape which warn DO NOT ENTER - AT ORDER OF THE MILITARY POLICE are crisscrossed over the closed door. They open the door and step under the tape and walk into INT. SANTIAGO'S ROOM - DAY The room is exactly an it was left that night. The un-made bed, the chair knocked over... The LAWYERS look around for a moment. The room is sparse. Kaffee goes to the closet and opens it: A row of uniforms hanging neatly. He thumbs through then for a second, but there's nothing there. He opens the footlocker: Socks, underwear... all folded to marine corp precision... A shaving kit, a couple of photographs, a pad of writing paper and some envelopes... Kaffee closes the footlocker. KAFFEE Sam, somebody should see about getting this stuff to his parents. We don't need it anymore. KENDRICK Actually, the uniforms belong to the marine corps. The LAWYERS take a moment. KAFFEE Lt. Kendrick -- can I call you Jon? KENDRICK No, you may not. KAFFEE (beat) Have I done something to offend you? KENDRICK No, I like all you Navy boys. Every time we've gotta go someplace and fight, you fellas always give us a ride. JO Lt. Kendrick, do you think Santiago was murdered? KENDRICK Commander, I believe in God, and in his son Jesus Christ, and because I do, I can say this: Private Santiago is dead and that's a tragedy. But he's dead because he had no code. He's dead because he had no honor. And God was watching. SAM turns to KAFFEE. SAM How do you feel about that theory? KAFFEE (beat) Sounds good. Let's move on. SAM and KENDRICK walk out the door. JO stops KAFFEE. JO You planning on doing any investigating or are you just gonna take the guided tour? KAFFEE (beat) I'm pacing myself. CUT TO: INT. THE OFFICERS CLUB - DAY JESSEP, MARKINSON, KENDRICK and the LAWYERS are seated at a table in the corner. Stewards clear the lunch dishes and pour coffee. Jessep is finishing a story. JESSEP ...And they spent the next three hours running around, looking for Americans to surrender to. JESSEP laughs. KENDRICK joins him. SAM and KAFFEE force a laugh. MARKINSON forces a smile. JO remains silent. JESSEP (continuing; to the STEWARDS) That was delicious, men, thank you. STEWARD Our pleasure, sir. KAFFEE Colonel just need to ask you a couple of questions about August 6th. JESSEP Shoot. KAFFEE On the morning of the sixth, you were contacted by an NIS angent who said that Santiago had tipped him off to an illegal fenceline shooting. JESSEP Yes. KAFFEE Santiago was gonna reveal the person's name in exchange for a transfer. An I getting this right? JESSEP Yes. KAFFEE If you feel there are any details that I'm missing, you should free to speak up. JESSEP's not quite sure what to say to this Navy Lawyer Lieutenant-Smartass guy who just gave him permission to speak freely on his own base. JESSEP Thank you. KAFFEE Now it was at this point that you called Captain Markinson and Lt. Kendrick into your office? JESSEP Yes. KAFFEE And what happened then? JESSEP We agreed that for his own safety, Santiago should be transferred off the base. Here's something else KAFFEE didn't know. Neither did Jo. SAM jots something down on a small notepad. MARKINSON doesn't flinch. KAFFEE Santiago was set to be transferred? JESSEP On the first available flight to the states. Six the next morning. Three hours too late as it turned out. KAFFEE nods. KAFFEE Yeah. There's silence for a moment. KAFFEE takes a sip of his coffee. Then drains the cup and puts it down. KAFFEE (continuing) Alright, that's all I have. Thanks very much for your time. KENDRICK The corporal's got the jeep outside, he'll take you back to the airstrip. KAFFEE (standing) Thank you. JO Wait a minute, I've got some questions. KAFFEE No you don't. JO Yes I do. KAFFEE No you don't. JO Colonel, on the morning that Santiago died, did you meet with Doctor Stone between three and five? KAFFEE Jo -- JESSEP Of course I met with the doctor. One of my men was dead. KAFFEE (to JO) See? The man was dead. Let's go. JO (to JESSEP) I was wondering if you've ever heard the term Code Red. KAFFEE Jo -- JESSEP I've heard the term, yes. JO Colonel, this past February, you received a cautionary memo from the Naval Investigative Service, warning that the practice of enlisted men disciplining their own wasn't to be condoned by officers. JESSEP I submit to you that whoever wrote that memo has never served on the working end of a Soviet-made Cuban Ml-Al6 Assault Rifle. However, the directive having come from the NIS, I gave it its due attention. What's your point, Jo? KAFFEE She has no point. She often has no point. It's part of her charm. We're outta here. Thank you. JO My point is that I think code reds still go on down here. Do Code Reds still happen on this base, colonel? KAFFEE Jo, the colonel doesn't need to answer that. JO Yes he does. KAFFEE No, he really doesn't. JO Yeah, he really does. Colonel? JESSEP You know it just hit me. She outranks you, Danny. KAFFEE Yes sir. JESSEP I want to tell you something Danny and listen up 'cause I mean this: You're the luckiest man in the world. There is, believe me gentlemen, nothing sexier on earth than a woman you have to salute in the morning. Promote 'em all I say. JO's not upset. JO's not mad. But she's gonna ask her question 'til she gets an answer. JO Colonel, the practice of code Reds is still condoned by officers on this base, isn't it? JESSEP You see my problem is, of course, that I'm a Colonel. I'll just have to keep taking cold showers 'til they elect some gal President. JO I need an answer to my question, sir. JESSEP Take caution in your tone, Commander. I'm a fair guy, but this fuckin' heat's making me absolutely crazy. You want to know about code reds? On the record I tell you that I discourage the practice in accordance with the NIS directive. Off the record I tell you that it's an invaluable part of close infantry training, and if it happens to go on without my knowledge, so be it. I run my base how I run my base. You want to investigate me, roll the dice and take your chances. I eat breakfast 80 yards away from 4000 Cubans who are trained to kill me. So don't for one second think you're gonna come down here, flash a badge, and make me nervous. A moment of tense silence before -- KAFFEE Let's go. Colonel, I'll just need a copy of Santiago's transfer order. JESSEP What's that? KAFFEE Santiago's transfer order. You guys have paper work on that kind of thing, I just need it for the file. JESSEP For the file. KAFFEE Yeah. JESSEP (pause) Of course you can have a copy of the transfer order. For the file. I'm here to help anyway I can. KAFFEE Thank you. JESSEP You believe that, don't you? Danny? That I'm here to help anyway I can? KAFFEE Of course. JESSEP The corporal'll run you by Ordinance on your way out to the airstrip. You can have all the transfer orders you want. KAFFEE (to JO and SAM) Let's go. The LAWYERS start to leave. JESSEP But you have to ask me nicely. KAFFEE stops. Turns around. Sam and JO stop and turn. KAFFEE I beg your pardon? JESSEP You have to ask me nicely. You see, Danny, I can deal with the bullets and the bombs and the blood. I can deal with the heat and the stress and the fear. I don't want money and I don't want medals. What I want is for you to stand there in that faggoty white uniform, and with your Harvard mouth, extend me some fuckin' courtesy. You gotta ask me nicely. KAFFEE and JESSEP are frozen. Everyone'staring at Kaffee; The OFFICERS at their tables... KENDRICK... SAM... MARKINSON... JO... KAFFEE makes his decision. KAFFEE Colonel Jessep... if it's not too much trouble, I'd like a copy of the transfer order. Sir. JESSEP smiles. JESSEP No problem. HOLD for a moment. JO's very disappointed. JESSEP stands there and watches the LAWYERS as they turn and leave the Officer's Club. JESSEP (continuing) I hate casualties, Matthew. There are casualties even in victory. A marine smothers a grenade and saves his platoon, that marine's a hero. The foundation of the unit, the fabric of this base, the spirit of the Corps, they are things worth fighting for. MARKINSON looks at the ground. JESSEP (continuing) Dawson and Downey, they don't know it, but they're smothering a grenade. MARKINSON looks up as we CUT TO: EXT. ANDREWS AIRFORCE BASE - DUSK As a plane touches down on the runway. It's dusk in Washington and CUT TO: EXT. KAFFEE'S APARTMENT - DAY A little one-bedroom. Just the essential furniture, barely even that. KAFFEE's sitting and watching a baseball came on t.v. He's holding a copy of The Baseball Encyclopedia, normally his favorite reading material, but right now he's having trouble keeping his mind in it. He's holding a baseball bat and fiddling with it. The remnants of a pizza and Yoo-Hoo dinner sit next to him. His white uniform in a pile in the corner. There's a BUZZ at the door. KAFFEE's not expecting anyone. He goes to the door. KAFFEE Who is it? JO (O.S.) It's me. KAFFEE opens the door and JO walks in. KAFFEE I've really missed you, Jo. I was just saying to myself, "It's been almost three hours since I last saw -- " JO Markinson resigned his commission. KAFFEE (pause) When? JO This afternoon. Sometime after we left. KAFFEE I'll talk to him in the morning. JO I already tried, I can't find him. KAFFEE You tried? Joanne, you're coming dangerously close to the textbook definition of interfering with a government investigation. JO hands KAFFEE the file she's been holding. JO I'm Louden Downey's attorney. KAFFEE's stunned. He opens the file and begins to read. JO (continuing) Aunt Ginny. She said she feels like she's known me for years. I suggested that she might feel more comfortable if I were directly involved with the case. She had Louden sign the papers about an hour ago. KAFFEE looks up. Still too stunned to say anything. Then finally... KAFFEE I suppose it's way too much to hope that you're just making this up to bother me. JO Don't worry, I'm not gonna make a motion for separation, you're still lead counsel. KAFFEE hands her back the file. KAFFEE Splendid. JO I think Kendrick ordered the Code Red. (beat) So do you. CUT TO: INT. A HOLDING ROOM IN THE BRIG - NIGHT DAWSON and DOWNEY come to attention as KAFFEE and JO are led in. DAWSON Officer on deck, ten hut. KAFFEE starts in immediately. KAFFEE Did Kendrick order the code red? DAWSON Sir? KAFFEE Don't say sir like I just asked you if you cleaned the latrine. You heard what I said. Did Lt. Kendrick order you guys to give Santiago a code red? DAWSON Yes sir. KAFFEE (to Downey) Did he? DOWNEY Yes sir. KAFFEE You mind telling me why the hell you never mentioned this before? DAWSON You didn't ask us, sir. KAFFEE Cutie-pie shit's not gonna win you a place in my heart, corporal, I get paid no matter how much time you spend in jail. DAWSON Yes

treachery

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

was damn funny. Jo moves close to KAFFEE to say this with a degree of confidentiality. JO I do know you. Daniel AlliStair Kaffee, born June 8th, 1964 at Boston Mercy Hospital. Your father's Lionel Kaffee, former Navy Judge Advocate and Attorney General, of the United States, died 1985. You went to Harvard Law on a Navy scholarship, probably because that's what your father wanted you to do, and now you're just treading water for the three years you've gotta serve in the JAG Corps, just kinda layin' low til you can get out and get a real job. And if that's the situation, that's fine, I won't tell anyone. But my feeling is that if this case is handled in the same fast-food, slick-ass, Persian Bazaar manner with which you seem to handle everything else, something's gonna get missed. And I wouldn't be doing my job if I allowed Dawson and Downey to spend any more time in prison than absolutely necessary, because their attorney had pre- determined the path of least resistance. KAFFEE can't help but be impressed by that speech. KAFFEE Wow. (beat) I'm sexually aroused, Commander. JO I don't think your clients murdered anybody. KAFFEE What are you basing this on? JO There was no intent. KAFFEE The doctor's report says that Santiago died of asphyxiation brought on by acute lactic acidosis, and that the nature of the acidosis strongly suggests poisoning. (beat) Now, I don't know what any of that means, but it sounds pretty bad. JO Santiago died at one a.m. At three the doctor was unable to determine the cause of death, but two hours later he said it was poison. KAFFEE Oh, now I see what you're saying. It had to be Professor Plum in the library with the candlestick. JO I'm gonna speak to your supervisor. KAFFEE Okay. You go straight up Pennsylvania Avenue. It's a big white house with pillars in front. JO Thank you. KAFFEE I don't think you'll have much luck, though. I was assigned by Division, remember? Somebody over there thinks I'm a good lawyer. So while I appreciate your interest and admire your enthusiasm, I think I can pretty much handle things myself. JO Do you know what a code red is? KAFFEE doesn't, but he doesn't say anything. JO (continuing) What a pity. CUT TO: INT. THE BRIG - DAY And an M.P. is leading KAFFEE and SAM down to DAWSON and DOWNEY's cell. M.P. Officer on deck, ten-hut. DAWSON and DOWNEY come to attention. Through the following, the M.P. will unlock the call door and let the lawyers in. DAWSON Sir, Lance Corporal Harold W. Dawson, sir. Rifle Security Company Windward, Second Platoon, Delta. KAFFEE Someone hasn't been working and playing well with others, Harold. DAWSON Sir, yes sir! DOWNEY Sir, PFC Louden Downey. KAFFEE I'm Daniel Kaffee, this is Sam Weinerg, you can sitdown. DAWSON and DOWNEY aren't too comfortable sitting in the presence of officers, but they do as they're told. KAFFEE's pulled out some documents, SAM's sitting on one of the cots taking notes. KAFFEE (continuing; to DAWSON) Is this your signature? DAWSON Yes sir. KAFFEE You don't have to call me sir. (to DOWNEY) Is this your signature? DOWNEY Sir, yes sir. KAFFEE And you certainly don't have to do it twice in one sentence. Harold, what's a Code Red? DAWSON Sir, a Code Red is a disciplinary engagement. KAFFEE What does that mean, exactly? DAWSON Sir, a marine falls out of line, it's up to the men in his unit to get him back on track. KAFFEE What's a garden variety Code Red? DAWSON Sir? KAFFEE Harold, you say sir and I turn around and look for my father. Danny, Daniel, Kaffee. Garden variety; typical. What's a basic Code Red? DAWSON Sir, a marine has refused to bathe on a regular basis. The men in his squad would give him a G.I. shower. KAFFEE What's that? DAWSON Scrub brushes, brillo pads, steel wool... SAM Beautiful. KAFFEE Was the attack on Santiago a Code Red? DAWSON Yes sir. KAFFEE (to DOWNEY) Do you ever talk? DAWSON Sir, Private Downey will answer any direct questions you ask him. KAFFEE Swell. Private Downey, the rag you stuffed in Santiago's mouth, was there poison on it? DOWNEY No sir. KAFFEE Silver polish, turpentine, anti- freeze... DOWNEY No sir. We were gonna shave his head, sir. KAFFEE When all of a sudden...? DOWNEY We saw blood drippinq out of his mouth. Then we pulled the tape off, and there was blood all down his face, sir. That's when Corporal Dawson called the ambulance. KAFFEE tries not to make too big a deal out of this last piece of news. KAFFEE (to DAWSON) Did anyone see you call the ambulance? DAWSON No sir. KAFFEE Were you there when the ambulance got there? DAWSON Yes sir, that's when we were taken under arrest. KAFFEE kinda strolls to the corner of the cell to think for a moment. SAM (to DAWSON) On the night of August 2nd, did you fire a shot across the fenceline into Cuba? DAWSON Yes sir. SAM Why? DAWSON My mirror engaged, sir. KAFFEE (to SAM) His mirror engaged? SAM For each American sentry post there's a Cuban counterpart. They're called mirrors. The corporal's claiming that his mirror was about to fire at him. KAFFEE Santiago's letter to the NIS said you fired illegally. He's saying that the guy, the mirror, he never made a move. DAWSON says nothing. KAFFEE (continuing) Oh, Harold? SAM is staring at DAWSON. KAFFEE (continuing) You see what I'm getting at? If Santiago didn't have anything on you, then why did you give him a Code Red? DAWSON Because he broke the chain of command, sir. KAFFEE He what? DAWSON He went outside his unit, sir. If he had a problem, he should've spoken to me, sir. Then his Sergeant, then Company Commander, then -- KAFFEE Yeah, yeah, alright. Harold, did you assault Santiago with the intent of killing him? DAWSON No sir. KAFFEE What was your intent? DAWSON To train him, sir. KAFFEE Train him to do what? DAWSON Train him to think of his unit before himself. To respect the code. SAM What's the code? DAWSON Unit Corps God Country. SAM I beg your pardon? DAWSON Unit Corps God Country, sir. KAFFEE The Goverrment of the United States wants to charge you two with murder. You want me to go to the prosecutor with unit, corps, god, country? DAWSON stares at KAFFEE. DAWSON That's our code, sir. KAFFEE takes a long moment. He picks up his briefcase and he and SAM move to the door. KAFFEE We'll be back. You guys need anything? Books paper, cigarettes, a ham sandwich? DAWSON Sir. No thank you. Sir. KAFFEE smiles at DAWSON. KAFFEE Harold, I think there's a concept you better start warming up to. DAWSON Sir? KAFFEE I'm the only friend you've got. And as KAFFEE and SAM walk out the open cell door, DAWSON and DOWNEY come to attention and snap a salute. They hold the salute until KAFFEE and SAM are well out of sight, and we CUT TO: INT. KAFFEE'S OFFICE - DAY He's packing up stuff into his briefcase at the end of the work day. Lt. JACK ROSS, a marine lawyer maybe two years older than Kaffee, opens the door and walks in.. ROSS Dan Kaffee. KAFFEE Sailin' Jack Ross. ROSS Welcome to the big time. KAFFEE You think so? ROSS I hope for Dawson and Downey's sake you practice law better than you play softball. KAFFEE Unfortunately for Dawson and Downey, I don't do anything better than I play softball. What are we lookin' at? ROSS They plead guilty to manslaughter, I'll drop the conspiracy and the conduct unbecoming. 20 years, they'll be home in half that time. KAFFEE I want twelve. ROSS Can't do it. KAFFEE They called the ambulance, Jack. ROSS I don't care if they called the Avon Lady, they killed a marine. KAFFEE The rag was tested for poison. The autopsy, lab report, even the initial E.R. and C.O.D. reports. They all say the same thing: Maybe, maybe not. ROSS The Chief of Internal Medicine at the Guantanamo Bay Naval hospital says he's sure. KAFFEE What do you know about Code Reds? ROSS smiles and shakes his head. ROSS Oh man. He closes the office door. ROSS (continuing) Are we off the record? KAFFEE You tell me. ROSS (pause) I'm gonna give you the twelve years, but before you go getting yourself into trouble tomorrow, you should know this: The platoon commander Lt. Jonathan Kendrick, had a meeting with the men. And he specifically told them not to touch Santiago. KAFFEE holds for a moment. Dawson and Downey neglected to mention this... He packs up his briefcase and cleats. KAFFEE I'll talk to you when I get back. ROSS Hey, we got a little four-on-four going tomorrow night. When does your plane get in? CUT TO: EXT. THE PARKING LOT - DUSK It's dusk and people on the base are going home from work. We can see the flag being lowered in the background. KAFFEE's walking toward his car. JO intercepts him and starts walking along with him. JO Hi there. KAFFEE Any luck getting me replaced? JO Is there anyone in this command that you don't either drink or play softball with? KAFFEE Commander -- JO Listen, I came to make peace. We started off on the wrong foot. What do you say? Friends? KAFFEE Look, I don't -- JO By the way, I brought Downey some comic books he was asking for. The kid, Kaffee, I swear, he doesn't know where he is, he doesn't even know why he's been arrested. KAFFEE Commander -- JO You can call me Joanne. KAFFEE Joanne -- JO or Jo. KAFFEE Jo? JO Yes. KAFFEE Jo, if you ever speak to a client of mine again without my permission, I'll have you disbarred. Friends? JO I had authorization. KAFFEE From where? JO Downey's closest living relative, Ginny Miller, his aunt on his mother's side. KAFFEE You got authorization from Aunt Ginny? JO I gave her a call like you asked. Very nice woman, we talked for about an hour. KAFFEE You got authorization from Aunt Ginny. JO Perfectly within my province. KAFFEE Does Aunt Ginny have a barn? We can hold the trial there. I can sew the costumes, and maybe his Uncle Goober can be the judge. Jo steps aside and lets KAFFEE got into his car. JO I'm going to Cuba with you tomorrow. KAFFEE And the hits just keep on comin'. HOLD on KAFFEE and Jo. JO smiles. CUT TO: EXT. SIDEWALK NEWSSTAND - DUSK KAFFEE IN HIS CAR He's driving down a Washington street and pulls over at a sidewalk newsstand. He gets out of his car, leaving the lights flashing, and runs up to the newsstand. As he plunks his 35 cents down and picks up a newspaper, he engages in his daily ritual with LUTHER, the newsstand operator. KAFFEE How's it goin', Luther? LUTHER Another day, another dollar, captain. KAFFEE You gotta play 'em as they lay, Luther. LUTHER What comes around, goes around, you know what I'm sayin'. KAFFEE If you can't beat 'em, join 'em. LUTHER Hey, if you've got your health, you got everything. KAFFEE Love makes the world go round. I'll see you tomorrow, Luther. And we CUT TO: INT. SAM'S LIVING ROOM - NIGHT A baby sleeping in a crib pull rack to reveal SAM is standing over the crib. KAFFEE's sitting on a beer. SAM When Nancy gets back, you're my witness. The baby spoke. My daughter said a word. KAFFEE Your daughter made a sound, Sam, I'm not sure it was a word. SAM Oh come on, it was a word. KAFFEE Okay. SAM You heard her. The girl sat here, pointed, and said "Pa". She did. She said "Pa". KAFFEE She was pointing at a doorknob. SAM That's right. Pointing, as if to say, "Pa, look, a doorknob". SAM joins KAFFEE in the living room. KAFFEE Jack Ross came to see me today. He offered me twelve years. SAM That's what you wanted. KAFFEE I know, and I'll... I guess, I mean -- (beat) I'll take it. SAM So? KAFFEE It took albout 45 seconds. He barely put up a fight. SAM (beat) Danny, take the twelve years, it's a gift. KAFFEE finishes off his beer, and stands. KAFFEE You don't believe their story, do you? You think they ought to go to jail for the rest of their lives. SAM I believe every word they said. And I think they ought to go to jail for the rest of their lives. KAFFEE nods and puts down the empty beer bottle. KAFFEE I'll see you tomorrow. Sam opens the front door for him and they stand out on the stoop for a moment. SAM Remember to wear your whites, it's hot down there. KAFFEE I don't like the whites. SAM Nobody likes the whites, but we're going to Cuba in August. You got Dramamine? KAFFEE Dramamine keeps you cool? SAM Dramamine keeps you from throwing up, you get sick when you fly. KAFFEE I get sick when I fly because I'm afraid of crashing into a large mountain, I don't think Dramamine'll help. SAM I've got some oregano, I hear that works pretty good. KAFFEE Yeah, right. KAFFEE starts toward his car, then turns around. KAFFEE (continuing) You know, Ross said the strangest thing to me right before I left. He said the platoon commander Lieutenant Jonathan Kendrick had a meeting with the men and specifically told them not to touch Santiago. SAM So? KAFFEE I never mentioned Kendrick. I don't even know who he is. (beat) What the hell. (beat) I'll see you tomorrow. We hold for a moment on KAFFEE as he walks to his car, then CUT TO: EXT. THE AIRSTRIP AT GUANTANAMO BAY - DAY The whole place, in stark contrast to the Washington Navy Yard, is ready to go to war. Fighter jets line the tarmac. Ground crews re-fuel planes. Hurried activity. A 36 seat Airforce Jet rolls to a stop on the tarmac and a stair unit is brought up. HOWARD, a marine corporal, is waiting by the stairway as the passengers begin to got off. Mostly MARINES, a few SAILORS, a couple of CIVILIANS, and KAFFEE, JO and SAM. KAFFEE and SAM are wearing their summer whites, JO is in khakis. KAFFEE and SAM stare out at what they see: They're not in Kansas anymore. HOWARD shouts over the noise from the planes. HOWARD Lieutenants Kaffee and Weinberg? KAFFEE (shouting) Yeah. JO Commander Galloway. HOWARD I'm Corporal Howard, ma'am, I'm to escort you to the Windward side of the base. JO Thank you. HOWARD I've got some camouflage jackets in the back of the jeep, sirs, I'll have to ask you both to put them on. KAFFEE Camouflage jackets? HOWARD Regulations, sir. We'll be riding pretty close to the fenceline. The Cubans see an officer wearing white, they think it's someone they might wanna take a shot at. KAFFEE turns and glares at SAM. KAFFEE Good call, Sam. CUT TO: EXT. CUBAN ROAD - THE JEEP - DAY Tearing along down the road, and now we see a beautiful expanse of water, maybe 1000 yards across. It's a section of Guantanamo Bay. HOWARD (shouting) We'll just hop on the ferry and be over there in no time. KAFFEE (shouting) Whoa! Hold it! We gotta take a boat?! HOWARD Yes sir, to get to the other side of the bay. KAFFEE Nobody said anything about a boat. HOWARD (shouting) Is there a problem, sir? KAFFEE (shouting) No. No problem. I'm just not that crazy about boats, that's all. JO (shouting) Jesus Christ, Kaffee, you're in the Navy for cryin' out loud! KAFFEE (shouting) Nobody likes her very much. HOWARD (shouting) Yes sir. The jeep drives on and we CUT TO: JESSEP, MARKINSON and KENDRICK are standing as the LAWYERS are led in. JESSEP Nathan Jessep, come on in and siddown. KAFFEE Thank you. I'm Daniel Kaffee, I'm the attorney for Dawson and Downey. This is Joanne Galloway, she's observing and evaluating -- JO (shaking hands) Colonel. JESSEP Pleased to meet you, Commander. KAFFEE Sam Weinberg. He has no responsibility here whatsoever. JESSEP I've asked Captain Markinson and Lt. Kendrick to join us. MARKINSON Lt. Kaffee, I had the pleasure of seeing your father once. I was a teenager and he spoke at my high school. KAFFEE smiles and nods. JESSEP Lionel Kaffee? KAFFEE Yes sir. JESSEP Well what do you know. Son, this man's dad once made a lot of enemies down in your neck of the woods. Jefferson vs. Madison County School District. The folks down there said a little black girl couldn't go to an all white school, Lionel Kaffee said we'll just see about that. How the hell is your dad? KAFFEE He passed away seven years ago, colonel. JESSEP (pause) Well... don't I feel like the fuckin, asshole. KAFFEE Not at all, sir. JESSEP Well, what can we do for you, Danny. KAFFEE Not much at all, sir, I'm afraid. This is really a formality more than anything else. The JAG Corps insists that I interview all the relevant witnesses. JO The JAG Corps can be demanding that way. JESSEP smiles. JESSEP Jonanthan'll take you out and show you what you wanna see, then we can all hook up for lunch, how does that sound? KAFFEE Fine, sir. CUT TO: EXT. THE FENCELINE - DAY A SQUAD OF MARINES jogs by as a jeep carrying KENDRICK and the three LAWYERS cruises down the road. We FOLLOW the jeep. KAFFEE I understand you had a meeting with your men that afternoon. KENDRICK Yes. KAFFEE What'd you guys talk about? KENDRICK I told the men that there was an informer among us. And that despite any desire they might have to seek retribution, Private Santiago was not to be harmed in any way. KAFFEE What time was that meeting? KENDRICK Sixteen-hundred. KAFFEE turns around and looks at SAM. SAM (leaning forward) Four o'clock. CUT TO: INT. THE BARRACKS CORRIDOR - DAY KENDRICK leads the LAWYERS down the corridor to Santiago's room. Two strips of tape which warn DO NOT ENTER - AT ORDER OF THE MILITARY POLICE are crisscrossed over the closed door. They open the door and step under the tape and walk into INT. SANTIAGO'S ROOM - DAY The room is exactly an it was left that night. The un-made bed, the chair knocked over... The LAWYERS look around for a moment. The room is sparse. Kaffee goes to the closet and opens it: A row of uniforms hanging neatly. He thumbs through then for a second, but there's nothing there. He opens the footlocker: Socks, underwear... all folded to marine corp precision... A shaving kit, a couple of photographs, a pad of writing paper and some envelopes... Kaffee closes the footlocker. KAFFEE Sam, somebody should see about getting this stuff to his parents. We don't need it anymore. KENDRICK Actually, the uniforms belong to the marine corps. The LAWYERS take a moment. KAFFEE Lt. Kendrick -- can I call you Jon? KENDRICK No, you may not. KAFFEE (beat) Have I done something to offend you? KENDRICK No, I like all you Navy boys. Every time we've gotta go someplace and fight, you fellas always give us a ride. JO Lt. Kendrick, do you think Santiago was murdered? KENDRICK Commander, I believe in God, and in his son Jesus Christ, and because I do, I can say this: Private Santiago is dead and that's a tragedy. But he's dead because he had no code. He's dead because he had no honor. And God was watching. SAM turns to KAFFEE. SAM How do you feel about that theory? KAFFEE (beat) Sounds good. Let's move on. SAM and KENDRICK walk out the door. JO stops KAFFEE. JO You planning on doing any investigating or are you just gonna take the guided tour? KAFFEE (beat) I'm pacing myself. CUT TO: INT. THE OFFICERS CLUB - DAY JESSEP, MARKINSON, KENDRICK and the LAWYERS are seated at a table in the corner. Stewards clear the lunch dishes and pour coffee. Jessep is finishing a story. JESSEP ...And they spent the next three hours running around, looking for Americans to surrender to. JESSEP laughs. KENDRICK joins him. SAM and KAFFEE force a laugh. MARKINSON forces a smile. JO remains silent. JESSEP (continuing; to the STEWARDS) That was delicious, men, thank you. STEWARD Our pleasure, sir. KAFFEE Colonel just need to ask you a couple of questions about August 6th. JESSEP Shoot. KAFFEE On the morning of the sixth, you were contacted by an NIS angent who said that Santiago had tipped him off to an illegal fenceline shooting. JESSEP Yes. KAFFEE Santiago was gonna reveal the person's name in exchange for a transfer. An I getting this right? JESSEP Yes. KAFFEE If you feel there are any details that I'm missing, you should free to speak up. JESSEP's not quite sure what to say to this Navy Lawyer Lieutenant-Smartass guy who just gave him permission to speak freely on his own base. JESSEP Thank you. KAFFEE Now it was at this point that you called Captain Markinson and Lt. Kendrick into your office? JESSEP Yes. KAFFEE And what happened then? JESSEP We agreed that for his own safety, Santiago should be transferred off the base. Here's something else KAFFEE didn't know. Neither did Jo. SAM jots something down on a small notepad. MARKINSON doesn't flinch. KAFFEE Santiago was set to be transferred? JESSEP On the first available flight to the states. Six the next morning. Three hours too late as it turned out. KAFFEE nods. KAFFEE Yeah. There's silence for a moment. KAFFEE takes a sip of his coffee. Then drains the cup and puts it down. KAFFEE (continuing) Alright, that's all I have. Thanks very much for your time. KENDRICK The corporal's got the jeep outside, he'll take you back to the airstrip. KAFFEE (standing) Thank you. JO Wait a minute, I've got some questions. KAFFEE No you don't. JO Yes I do. KAFFEE No you don't. JO Colonel, on the morning that Santiago died, did you meet with Doctor Stone between three and five? KAFFEE Jo -- JESSEP Of course I met with the doctor. One of my men was dead. KAFFEE (to JO) See? The man was dead. Let's go. JO (to JESSEP) I was wondering if you've ever heard the term Code Red. KAFFEE Jo -- JESSEP I've heard the term, yes. JO Colonel, this past February, you received a cautionary memo from the Naval Investigative Service, warning that the practice of enlisted men disciplining their own wasn't to be condoned by officers. JESSEP I submit to you that whoever wrote that memo has never served on the working end of a Soviet-made Cuban Ml-Al6 Assault Rifle. However, the directive having come from the NIS, I gave it its due attention. What's your point, Jo? KAFFEE She has no point. She often has no point. It's part of her charm. We're outta here. Thank you. JO My point is that I think code reds still go on down here. Do Code Reds still happen on this base, colonel? KAFFEE Jo, the colonel doesn't need to answer that. JO Yes he does. KAFFEE No, he really doesn't. JO Yeah, he really does. Colonel? JESSEP You know it just hit me. She outranks you, Danny. KAFFEE Yes sir. JESSEP I want to tell you something Danny and listen up 'cause I mean this: You're the luckiest man in the world. There is, believe me gentlemen, nothing sexier on earth than a woman you have to salute in the morning. Promote 'em all I say. JO's not upset. JO's not mad. But she's gonna ask her question 'til she gets an answer. JO Colonel, the practice of code Reds is still condoned by officers on this base, isn't it? JESSEP You see my problem is, of course, that I'm a Colonel. I'll just have to keep taking cold showers 'til they elect some gal President. JO I need an answer to my question, sir. JESSEP Take caution in your tone, Commander. I'm a fair guy, but this fuckin' heat's making me absolutely crazy. You want to know about code reds? On the record I tell you that I discourage the practice in accordance with the NIS directive. Off the record I tell you that it's an invaluable part of close infantry training, and if it happens to go on without my knowledge, so be it. I run my base how I run my base. You want to investigate me, roll the dice and take your chances. I eat breakfast 80 yards away from 4000 Cubans who are trained to kill me. So don't for one second think you're gonna come down here, flash a badge, and make me nervous. A moment of tense silence before -- KAFFEE Let's go. Colonel, I'll just need a copy of Santiago's transfer order. JESSEP What's that? KAFFEE Santiago's transfer order. You guys have paper work on that kind of thing, I just need it for the file. JESSEP For the file. KAFFEE Yeah. JESSEP (pause) Of course you can have a copy of the transfer order. For the file. I'm here to help anyway I can. KAFFEE Thank you. JESSEP You believe that, don't you? Danny? That I'm here to help anyway I can? KAFFEE Of course. JESSEP The corporal'll run you by Ordinance on your way out to the airstrip. You can have all the transfer orders you want. KAFFEE (to JO and SAM) Let's go. The LAWYERS start to leave. JESSEP But you have to ask me nicely. KAFFEE stops. Turns around. Sam and JO stop and turn. KAFFEE I beg your pardon? JESSEP You have to ask me nicely. You see, Danny, I can deal with the bullets and the bombs and the blood. I can deal with the heat and the stress and the fear. I don't want money and I don't want medals. What I want is for you to stand there in that faggoty white uniform, and with your Harvard mouth, extend me some fuckin' courtesy. You gotta ask me nicely. KAFFEE and JESSEP are frozen. Everyone'staring at Kaffee; The OFFICERS at their tables... KENDRICK... SAM... MARKINSON... JO... KAFFEE makes his decision. KAFFEE Colonel Jessep... if it's not too much trouble, I'd like a copy of the transfer order. Sir. JESSEP smiles. JESSEP No problem. HOLD for a moment. JO's very disappointed. JESSEP stands there and watches the LAWYERS as they turn and leave the Officer's Club. JESSEP (continuing) I hate casualties, Matthew. There are casualties even in victory. A marine smothers a grenade and saves his platoon, that marine's a hero. The foundation of the unit, the fabric of this base, the spirit of the Corps, they are things worth fighting for. MARKINSON looks at the ground. JESSEP (continuing) Dawson and Downey, they don't know it, but they're smothering a grenade. MARKINSON looks up as we CUT TO: EXT. ANDREWS AIRFORCE BASE - DUSK As a plane touches down on the runway. It's dusk in Washington and CUT TO: EXT. KAFFEE'S APARTMENT - DAY A little one-bedroom. Just the essential furniture, barely even that. KAFFEE's sitting and watching a baseball came on t.v. He's holding a copy of The Baseball Encyclopedia, normally his favorite reading material, but right now he's having trouble keeping his mind in it. He's holding a baseball bat and fiddling with it. The remnants of a pizza and Yoo-Hoo dinner sit next to him. His white uniform in a pile in the corner. There's a BUZZ at the door. KAFFEE's not expecting anyone. He goes to the door. KAFFEE Who is it? JO (O.S.) It's me. KAFFEE opens the door and JO walks in. KAFFEE I've really missed you, Jo. I was just saying to myself, "It's been almost three hours since I last saw -- " JO Markinson resigned his commission. KAFFEE (pause) When? JO This afternoon. Sometime after we left. KAFFEE I'll talk to him in the morning. JO I already tried, I can't find him. KAFFEE You tried? Joanne, you're coming dangerously close to the textbook definition of interfering with a government investigation. JO hands KAFFEE the file she's been holding. JO I'm Louden Downey's attorney. KAFFEE's stunned. He opens the file and begins to read. JO (continuing) Aunt Ginny. She said she feels like she's known me for years. I suggested that she might feel more comfortable if I were directly involved with the case. She had Louden sign the papers about an hour ago. KAFFEE looks up. Still too stunned to say anything. Then finally... KAFFEE I suppose it's way too much to hope that you're just making this up to bother me. JO Don't worry, I'm not gonna make a motion for separation, you're still lead counsel. KAFFEE hands her back the file. KAFFEE Splendid. JO I think Kendrick ordered the Code Red. (beat) So do you. CUT TO: INT. A HOLDING ROOM IN THE BRIG - NIGHT DAWSON and DOWNEY come to attention as KAFFEE and JO are led in. DAWSON Officer on deck, ten hut. KAFFEE starts in immediately. KAFFEE Did Kendrick order the code red? DAWSON Sir? KAFFEE Don't say sir like I just asked you if you cleaned the latrine. You heard what I said. Did Lt. Kendrick order you guys to give Santiago a code red? DAWSON Yes sir. KAFFEE (to Downey) Did he? DOWNEY Yes sir. KAFFEE You mind telling me why the hell you never mentioned this before? DAWSON You didn't ask us, sir. KAFFEE Cutie-pie shit's not gonna win you a place in my heart, corporal, I get paid no matter how much time you spend in jail. DAWSON Yes

vs.

How many times the word 'vs.' appears in the text?

was damn funny. Jo moves close to KAFFEE to say this with a degree of confidentiality. JO I do know you. Daniel AlliStair Kaffee, born June 8th, 1964 at Boston Mercy Hospital. Your father's Lionel Kaffee, former Navy Judge Advocate and Attorney General, of the United States, died 1985. You went to Harvard Law on a Navy scholarship, probably because that's what your father wanted you to do, and now you're just treading water for the three years you've gotta serve in the JAG Corps, just kinda layin' low til you can get out and get a real job. And if that's the situation, that's fine, I won't tell anyone. But my feeling is that if this case is handled in the same fast-food, slick-ass, Persian Bazaar manner with which you seem to handle everything else, something's gonna get missed. And I wouldn't be doing my job if I allowed Dawson and Downey to spend any more time in prison than absolutely necessary, because their attorney had pre- determined the path of least resistance. KAFFEE can't help but be impressed by that speech. KAFFEE Wow. (beat) I'm sexually aroused, Commander. JO I don't think your clients murdered anybody. KAFFEE What are you basing this on? JO There was no intent. KAFFEE The doctor's report says that Santiago died of asphyxiation brought on by acute lactic acidosis, and that the nature of the acidosis strongly suggests poisoning. (beat) Now, I don't know what any of that means, but it sounds pretty bad. JO Santiago died at one a.m. At three the doctor was unable to determine the cause of death, but two hours later he said it was poison. KAFFEE Oh, now I see what you're saying. It had to be Professor Plum in the library with the candlestick. JO I'm gonna speak to your supervisor. KAFFEE Okay. You go straight up Pennsylvania Avenue. It's a big white house with pillars in front. JO Thank you. KAFFEE I don't think you'll have much luck, though. I was assigned by Division, remember? Somebody over there thinks I'm a good lawyer. So while I appreciate your interest and admire your enthusiasm, I think I can pretty much handle things myself. JO Do you know what a code red is? KAFFEE doesn't, but he doesn't say anything. JO (continuing) What a pity. CUT TO: INT. THE BRIG - DAY And an M.P. is leading KAFFEE and SAM down to DAWSON and DOWNEY's cell. M.P. Officer on deck, ten-hut. DAWSON and DOWNEY come to attention. Through the following, the M.P. will unlock the call door and let the lawyers in. DAWSON Sir, Lance Corporal Harold W. Dawson, sir. Rifle Security Company Windward, Second Platoon, Delta. KAFFEE Someone hasn't been working and playing well with others, Harold. DAWSON Sir, yes sir! DOWNEY Sir, PFC Louden Downey. KAFFEE I'm Daniel Kaffee, this is Sam Weinerg, you can sitdown. DAWSON and DOWNEY aren't too comfortable sitting in the presence of officers, but they do as they're told. KAFFEE's pulled out some documents, SAM's sitting on one of the cots taking notes. KAFFEE (continuing; to DAWSON) Is this your signature? DAWSON Yes sir. KAFFEE You don't have to call me sir. (to DOWNEY) Is this your signature? DOWNEY Sir, yes sir. KAFFEE And you certainly don't have to do it twice in one sentence. Harold, what's a Code Red? DAWSON Sir, a Code Red is a disciplinary engagement. KAFFEE What does that mean, exactly? DAWSON Sir, a marine falls out of line, it's up to the men in his unit to get him back on track. KAFFEE What's a garden variety Code Red? DAWSON Sir? KAFFEE Harold, you say sir and I turn around and look for my father. Danny, Daniel, Kaffee. Garden variety; typical. What's a basic Code Red? DAWSON Sir, a marine has refused to bathe on a regular basis. The men in his squad would give him a G.I. shower. KAFFEE What's that? DAWSON Scrub brushes, brillo pads, steel wool... SAM Beautiful. KAFFEE Was the attack on Santiago a Code Red? DAWSON Yes sir. KAFFEE (to DOWNEY) Do you ever talk? DAWSON Sir, Private Downey will answer any direct questions you ask him. KAFFEE Swell. Private Downey, the rag you stuffed in Santiago's mouth, was there poison on it? DOWNEY No sir. KAFFEE Silver polish, turpentine, anti- freeze... DOWNEY No sir. We were gonna shave his head, sir. KAFFEE When all of a sudden...? DOWNEY We saw blood drippinq out of his mouth. Then we pulled the tape off, and there was blood all down his face, sir. That's when Corporal Dawson called the ambulance. KAFFEE tries not to make too big a deal out of this last piece of news. KAFFEE (to DAWSON) Did anyone see you call the ambulance? DAWSON No sir. KAFFEE Were you there when the ambulance got there? DAWSON Yes sir, that's when we were taken under arrest. KAFFEE kinda strolls to the corner of the cell to think for a moment. SAM (to DAWSON) On the night of August 2nd, did you fire a shot across the fenceline into Cuba? DAWSON Yes sir. SAM Why? DAWSON My mirror engaged, sir. KAFFEE (to SAM) His mirror engaged? SAM For each American sentry post there's a Cuban counterpart. They're called mirrors. The corporal's claiming that his mirror was about to fire at him. KAFFEE Santiago's letter to the NIS said you fired illegally. He's saying that the guy, the mirror, he never made a move. DAWSON says nothing. KAFFEE (continuing) Oh, Harold? SAM is staring at DAWSON. KAFFEE (continuing) You see what I'm getting at? If Santiago didn't have anything on you, then why did you give him a Code Red? DAWSON Because he broke the chain of command, sir. KAFFEE He what? DAWSON He went outside his unit, sir. If he had a problem, he should've spoken to me, sir. Then his Sergeant, then Company Commander, then -- KAFFEE Yeah, yeah, alright. Harold, did you assault Santiago with the intent of killing him? DAWSON No sir. KAFFEE What was your intent? DAWSON To train him, sir. KAFFEE Train him to do what? DAWSON Train him to think of his unit before himself. To respect the code. SAM What's the code? DAWSON Unit Corps God Country. SAM I beg your pardon? DAWSON Unit Corps God Country, sir. KAFFEE The Goverrment of the United States wants to charge you two with murder. You want me to go to the prosecutor with unit, corps, god, country? DAWSON stares at KAFFEE. DAWSON That's our code, sir. KAFFEE takes a long moment. He picks up his briefcase and he and SAM move to the door. KAFFEE We'll be back. You guys need anything? Books paper, cigarettes, a ham sandwich? DAWSON Sir. No thank you. Sir. KAFFEE smiles at DAWSON. KAFFEE Harold, I think there's a concept you better start warming up to. DAWSON Sir? KAFFEE I'm the only friend you've got. And as KAFFEE and SAM walk out the open cell door, DAWSON and DOWNEY come to attention and snap a salute. They hold the salute until KAFFEE and SAM are well out of sight, and we CUT TO: INT. KAFFEE'S OFFICE - DAY He's packing up stuff into his briefcase at the end of the work day. Lt. JACK ROSS, a marine lawyer maybe two years older than Kaffee, opens the door and walks in.. ROSS Dan Kaffee. KAFFEE Sailin' Jack Ross. ROSS Welcome to the big time. KAFFEE You think so? ROSS I hope for Dawson and Downey's sake you practice law better than you play softball. KAFFEE Unfortunately for Dawson and Downey, I don't do anything better than I play softball. What are we lookin' at? ROSS They plead guilty to manslaughter, I'll drop the conspiracy and the conduct unbecoming. 20 years, they'll be home in half that time. KAFFEE I want twelve. ROSS Can't do it. KAFFEE They called the ambulance, Jack. ROSS I don't care if they called the Avon Lady, they killed a marine. KAFFEE The rag was tested for poison. The autopsy, lab report, even the initial E.R. and C.O.D. reports. They all say the same thing: Maybe, maybe not. ROSS The Chief of Internal Medicine at the Guantanamo Bay Naval hospital says he's sure. KAFFEE What do you know about Code Reds? ROSS smiles and shakes his head. ROSS Oh man. He closes the office door. ROSS (continuing) Are we off the record? KAFFEE You tell me. ROSS (pause) I'm gonna give you the twelve years, but before you go getting yourself into trouble tomorrow, you should know this: The platoon commander Lt. Jonathan Kendrick, had a meeting with the men. And he specifically told them not to touch Santiago. KAFFEE holds for a moment. Dawson and Downey neglected to mention this... He packs up his briefcase and cleats. KAFFEE I'll talk to you when I get back. ROSS Hey, we got a little four-on-four going tomorrow night. When does your plane get in? CUT TO: EXT. THE PARKING LOT - DUSK It's dusk and people on the base are going home from work. We can see the flag being lowered in the background. KAFFEE's walking toward his car. JO intercepts him and starts walking along with him. JO Hi there. KAFFEE Any luck getting me replaced? JO Is there anyone in this command that you don't either drink or play softball with? KAFFEE Commander -- JO Listen, I came to make peace. We started off on the wrong foot. What do you say? Friends? KAFFEE Look, I don't -- JO By the way, I brought Downey some comic books he was asking for. The kid, Kaffee, I swear, he doesn't know where he is, he doesn't even know why he's been arrested. KAFFEE Commander -- JO You can call me Joanne. KAFFEE Joanne -- JO or Jo. KAFFEE Jo? JO Yes. KAFFEE Jo, if you ever speak to a client of mine again without my permission, I'll have you disbarred. Friends? JO I had authorization. KAFFEE From where? JO Downey's closest living relative, Ginny Miller, his aunt on his mother's side. KAFFEE You got authorization from Aunt Ginny? JO I gave her a call like you asked. Very nice woman, we talked for about an hour. KAFFEE You got authorization from Aunt Ginny. JO Perfectly within my province. KAFFEE Does Aunt Ginny have a barn? We can hold the trial there. I can sew the costumes, and maybe his Uncle Goober can be the judge. Jo steps aside and lets KAFFEE got into his car. JO I'm going to Cuba with you tomorrow. KAFFEE And the hits just keep on comin'. HOLD on KAFFEE and Jo. JO smiles. CUT TO: EXT. SIDEWALK NEWSSTAND - DUSK KAFFEE IN HIS CAR He's driving down a Washington street and pulls over at a sidewalk newsstand. He gets out of his car, leaving the lights flashing, and runs up to the newsstand. As he plunks his 35 cents down and picks up a newspaper, he engages in his daily ritual with LUTHER, the newsstand operator. KAFFEE How's it goin', Luther? LUTHER Another day, another dollar, captain. KAFFEE You gotta play 'em as they lay, Luther. LUTHER What comes around, goes around, you know what I'm sayin'. KAFFEE If you can't beat 'em, join 'em. LUTHER Hey, if you've got your health, you got everything. KAFFEE Love makes the world go round. I'll see you tomorrow, Luther. And we CUT TO: INT. SAM'S LIVING ROOM - NIGHT A baby sleeping in a crib pull rack to reveal SAM is standing over the crib. KAFFEE's sitting on a beer. SAM When Nancy gets back, you're my witness. The baby spoke. My daughter said a word. KAFFEE Your daughter made a sound, Sam, I'm not sure it was a word. SAM Oh come on, it was a word. KAFFEE Okay. SAM You heard her. The girl sat here, pointed, and said "Pa". She did. She said "Pa". KAFFEE She was pointing at a doorknob. SAM That's right. Pointing, as if to say, "Pa, look, a doorknob". SAM joins KAFFEE in the living room. KAFFEE Jack Ross came to see me today. He offered me twelve years. SAM That's what you wanted. KAFFEE I know, and I'll... I guess, I mean -- (beat) I'll take it. SAM So? KAFFEE It took albout 45 seconds. He barely put up a fight. SAM (beat) Danny, take the twelve years, it's a gift. KAFFEE finishes off his beer, and stands. KAFFEE You don't believe their story, do you? You think they ought to go to jail for the rest of their lives. SAM I believe every word they said. And I think they ought to go to jail for the rest of their lives. KAFFEE nods and puts down the empty beer bottle. KAFFEE I'll see you tomorrow. Sam opens the front door for him and they stand out on the stoop for a moment. SAM Remember to wear your whites, it's hot down there. KAFFEE I don't like the whites. SAM Nobody likes the whites, but we're going to Cuba in August. You got Dramamine? KAFFEE Dramamine keeps you cool? SAM Dramamine keeps you from throwing up, you get sick when you fly. KAFFEE I get sick when I fly because I'm afraid of crashing into a large mountain, I don't think Dramamine'll help. SAM I've got some oregano, I hear that works pretty good. KAFFEE Yeah, right. KAFFEE starts toward his car, then turns around. KAFFEE (continuing) You know, Ross said the strangest thing to me right before I left. He said the platoon commander Lieutenant Jonathan Kendrick had a meeting with the men and specifically told them not to touch Santiago. SAM So? KAFFEE I never mentioned Kendrick. I don't even know who he is. (beat) What the hell. (beat) I'll see you tomorrow. We hold for a moment on KAFFEE as he walks to his car, then CUT TO: EXT. THE AIRSTRIP AT GUANTANAMO BAY - DAY The whole place, in stark contrast to the Washington Navy Yard, is ready to go to war. Fighter jets line the tarmac. Ground crews re-fuel planes. Hurried activity. A 36 seat Airforce Jet rolls to a stop on the tarmac and a stair unit is brought up. HOWARD, a marine corporal, is waiting by the stairway as the passengers begin to got off. Mostly MARINES, a few SAILORS, a couple of CIVILIANS, and KAFFEE, JO and SAM. KAFFEE and SAM are wearing their summer whites, JO is in khakis. KAFFEE and SAM stare out at what they see: They're not in Kansas anymore. HOWARD shouts over the noise from the planes. HOWARD Lieutenants Kaffee and Weinberg? KAFFEE (shouting) Yeah. JO Commander Galloway. HOWARD I'm Corporal Howard, ma'am, I'm to escort you to the Windward side of the base. JO Thank you. HOWARD I've got some camouflage jackets in the back of the jeep, sirs, I'll have to ask you both to put them on. KAFFEE Camouflage jackets? HOWARD Regulations, sir. We'll be riding pretty close to the fenceline. The Cubans see an officer wearing white, they think it's someone they might wanna take a shot at. KAFFEE turns and glares at SAM. KAFFEE Good call, Sam. CUT TO: EXT. CUBAN ROAD - THE JEEP - DAY Tearing along down the road, and now we see a beautiful expanse of water, maybe 1000 yards across. It's a section of Guantanamo Bay. HOWARD (shouting) We'll just hop on the ferry and be over there in no time. KAFFEE (shouting) Whoa! Hold it! We gotta take a boat?! HOWARD Yes sir, to get to the other side of the bay. KAFFEE Nobody said anything about a boat. HOWARD (shouting) Is there a problem, sir? KAFFEE (shouting) No. No problem. I'm just not that crazy about boats, that's all. JO (shouting) Jesus Christ, Kaffee, you're in the Navy for cryin' out loud! KAFFEE (shouting) Nobody likes her very much. HOWARD (shouting) Yes sir. The jeep drives on and we CUT TO: JESSEP, MARKINSON and KENDRICK are standing as the LAWYERS are led in. JESSEP Nathan Jessep, come on in and siddown. KAFFEE Thank you. I'm Daniel Kaffee, I'm the attorney for Dawson and Downey. This is Joanne Galloway, she's observing and evaluating -- JO (shaking hands) Colonel. JESSEP Pleased to meet you, Commander. KAFFEE Sam Weinberg. He has no responsibility here whatsoever. JESSEP I've asked Captain Markinson and Lt. Kendrick to join us. MARKINSON Lt. Kaffee, I had the pleasure of seeing your father once. I was a teenager and he spoke at my high school. KAFFEE smiles and nods. JESSEP Lionel Kaffee? KAFFEE Yes sir. JESSEP Well what do you know. Son, this man's dad once made a lot of enemies down in your neck of the woods. Jefferson vs. Madison County School District. The folks down there said a little black girl couldn't go to an all white school, Lionel Kaffee said we'll just see about that. How the hell is your dad? KAFFEE He passed away seven years ago, colonel. JESSEP (pause) Well... don't I feel like the fuckin, asshole. KAFFEE Not at all, sir. JESSEP Well, what can we do for you, Danny. KAFFEE Not much at all, sir, I'm afraid. This is really a formality more than anything else. The JAG Corps insists that I interview all the relevant witnesses. JO The JAG Corps can be demanding that way. JESSEP smiles. JESSEP Jonanthan'll take you out and show you what you wanna see, then we can all hook up for lunch, how does that sound? KAFFEE Fine, sir. CUT TO: EXT. THE FENCELINE - DAY A SQUAD OF MARINES jogs by as a jeep carrying KENDRICK and the three LAWYERS cruises down the road. We FOLLOW the jeep. KAFFEE I understand you had a meeting with your men that afternoon. KENDRICK Yes. KAFFEE What'd you guys talk about? KENDRICK I told the men that there was an informer among us. And that despite any desire they might have to seek retribution, Private Santiago was not to be harmed in any way. KAFFEE What time was that meeting? KENDRICK Sixteen-hundred. KAFFEE turns around and looks at SAM. SAM (leaning forward) Four o'clock. CUT TO: INT. THE BARRACKS CORRIDOR - DAY KENDRICK leads the LAWYERS down the corridor to Santiago's room. Two strips of tape which warn DO NOT ENTER - AT ORDER OF THE MILITARY POLICE are crisscrossed over the closed door. They open the door and step under the tape and walk into INT. SANTIAGO'S ROOM - DAY The room is exactly an it was left that night. The un-made bed, the chair knocked over... The LAWYERS look around for a moment. The room is sparse. Kaffee goes to the closet and opens it: A row of uniforms hanging neatly. He thumbs through then for a second, but there's nothing there. He opens the footlocker: Socks, underwear... all folded to marine corp precision... A shaving kit, a couple of photographs, a pad of writing paper and some envelopes... Kaffee closes the footlocker. KAFFEE Sam, somebody should see about getting this stuff to his parents. We don't need it anymore. KENDRICK Actually, the uniforms belong to the marine corps. The LAWYERS take a moment. KAFFEE Lt. Kendrick -- can I call you Jon? KENDRICK No, you may not. KAFFEE (beat) Have I done something to offend you? KENDRICK No, I like all you Navy boys. Every time we've gotta go someplace and fight, you fellas always give us a ride. JO Lt. Kendrick, do you think Santiago was murdered? KENDRICK Commander, I believe in God, and in his son Jesus Christ, and because I do, I can say this: Private Santiago is dead and that's a tragedy. But he's dead because he had no code. He's dead because he had no honor. And God was watching. SAM turns to KAFFEE. SAM How do you feel about that theory? KAFFEE (beat) Sounds good. Let's move on. SAM and KENDRICK walk out the door. JO stops KAFFEE. JO You planning on doing any investigating or are you just gonna take the guided tour? KAFFEE (beat) I'm pacing myself. CUT TO: INT. THE OFFICERS CLUB - DAY JESSEP, MARKINSON, KENDRICK and the LAWYERS are seated at a table in the corner. Stewards clear the lunch dishes and pour coffee. Jessep is finishing a story. JESSEP ...And they spent the next three hours running around, looking for Americans to surrender to. JESSEP laughs. KENDRICK joins him. SAM and KAFFEE force a laugh. MARKINSON forces a smile. JO remains silent. JESSEP (continuing; to the STEWARDS) That was delicious, men, thank you. STEWARD Our pleasure, sir. KAFFEE Colonel just need to ask you a couple of questions about August 6th. JESSEP Shoot. KAFFEE On the morning of the sixth, you were contacted by an NIS angent who said that Santiago had tipped him off to an illegal fenceline shooting. JESSEP Yes. KAFFEE Santiago was gonna reveal the person's name in exchange for a transfer. An I getting this right? JESSEP Yes. KAFFEE If you feel there are any details that I'm missing, you should free to speak up. JESSEP's not quite sure what to say to this Navy Lawyer Lieutenant-Smartass guy who just gave him permission to speak freely on his own base. JESSEP Thank you. KAFFEE Now it was at this point that you called Captain Markinson and Lt. Kendrick into your office? JESSEP Yes. KAFFEE And what happened then? JESSEP We agreed that for his own safety, Santiago should be transferred off the base. Here's something else KAFFEE didn't know. Neither did Jo. SAM jots something down on a small notepad. MARKINSON doesn't flinch. KAFFEE Santiago was set to be transferred? JESSEP On the first available flight to the states. Six the next morning. Three hours too late as it turned out. KAFFEE nods. KAFFEE Yeah. There's silence for a moment. KAFFEE takes a sip of his coffee. Then drains the cup and puts it down. KAFFEE (continuing) Alright, that's all I have. Thanks very much for your time. KENDRICK The corporal's got the jeep outside, he'll take you back to the airstrip. KAFFEE (standing) Thank you. JO Wait a minute, I've got some questions. KAFFEE No you don't. JO Yes I do. KAFFEE No you don't. JO Colonel, on the morning that Santiago died, did you meet with Doctor Stone between three and five? KAFFEE Jo -- JESSEP Of course I met with the doctor. One of my men was dead. KAFFEE (to JO) See? The man was dead. Let's go. JO (to JESSEP) I was wondering if you've ever heard the term Code Red. KAFFEE Jo -- JESSEP I've heard the term, yes. JO Colonel, this past February, you received a cautionary memo from the Naval Investigative Service, warning that the practice of enlisted men disciplining their own wasn't to be condoned by officers. JESSEP I submit to you that whoever wrote that memo has never served on the working end of a Soviet-made Cuban Ml-Al6 Assault Rifle. However, the directive having come from the NIS, I gave it its due attention. What's your point, Jo? KAFFEE She has no point. She often has no point. It's part of her charm. We're outta here. Thank you. JO My point is that I think code reds still go on down here. Do Code Reds still happen on this base, colonel? KAFFEE Jo, the colonel doesn't need to answer that. JO Yes he does. KAFFEE No, he really doesn't. JO Yeah, he really does. Colonel? JESSEP You know it just hit me. She outranks you, Danny. KAFFEE Yes sir. JESSEP I want to tell you something Danny and listen up 'cause I mean this: You're the luckiest man in the world. There is, believe me gentlemen, nothing sexier on earth than a woman you have to salute in the morning. Promote 'em all I say. JO's not upset. JO's not mad. But she's gonna ask her question 'til she gets an answer. JO Colonel, the practice of code Reds is still condoned by officers on this base, isn't it? JESSEP You see my problem is, of course, that I'm a Colonel. I'll just have to keep taking cold showers 'til they elect some gal President. JO I need an answer to my question, sir. JESSEP Take caution in your tone, Commander. I'm a fair guy, but this fuckin' heat's making me absolutely crazy. You want to know about code reds? On the record I tell you that I discourage the practice in accordance with the NIS directive. Off the record I tell you that it's an invaluable part of close infantry training, and if it happens to go on without my knowledge, so be it. I run my base how I run my base. You want to investigate me, roll the dice and take your chances. I eat breakfast 80 yards away from 4000 Cubans who are trained to kill me. So don't for one second think you're gonna come down here, flash a badge, and make me nervous. A moment of tense silence before -- KAFFEE Let's go. Colonel, I'll just need a copy of Santiago's transfer order. JESSEP What's that? KAFFEE Santiago's transfer order. You guys have paper work on that kind of thing, I just need it for the file. JESSEP For the file. KAFFEE Yeah. JESSEP (pause) Of course you can have a copy of the transfer order. For the file. I'm here to help anyway I can. KAFFEE Thank you. JESSEP You believe that, don't you? Danny? That I'm here to help anyway I can? KAFFEE Of course. JESSEP The corporal'll run you by Ordinance on your way out to the airstrip. You can have all the transfer orders you want. KAFFEE (to JO and SAM) Let's go. The LAWYERS start to leave. JESSEP But you have to ask me nicely. KAFFEE stops. Turns around. Sam and JO stop and turn. KAFFEE I beg your pardon? JESSEP You have to ask me nicely. You see, Danny, I can deal with the bullets and the bombs and the blood. I can deal with the heat and the stress and the fear. I don't want money and I don't want medals. What I want is for you to stand there in that faggoty white uniform, and with your Harvard mouth, extend me some fuckin' courtesy. You gotta ask me nicely. KAFFEE and JESSEP are frozen. Everyone'staring at Kaffee; The OFFICERS at their tables... KENDRICK... SAM... MARKINSON... JO... KAFFEE makes his decision. KAFFEE Colonel Jessep... if it's not too much trouble, I'd like a copy of the transfer order. Sir. JESSEP smiles. JESSEP No problem. HOLD for a moment. JO's very disappointed. JESSEP stands there and watches the LAWYERS as they turn and leave the Officer's Club. JESSEP (continuing) I hate casualties, Matthew. There are casualties even in victory. A marine smothers a grenade and saves his platoon, that marine's a hero. The foundation of the unit, the fabric of this base, the spirit of the Corps, they are things worth fighting for. MARKINSON looks at the ground. JESSEP (continuing) Dawson and Downey, they don't know it, but they're smothering a grenade. MARKINSON looks up as we CUT TO: EXT. ANDREWS AIRFORCE BASE - DUSK As a plane touches down on the runway. It's dusk in Washington and CUT TO: EXT. KAFFEE'S APARTMENT - DAY A little one-bedroom. Just the essential furniture, barely even that. KAFFEE's sitting and watching a baseball came on t.v. He's holding a copy of The Baseball Encyclopedia, normally his favorite reading material, but right now he's having trouble keeping his mind in it. He's holding a baseball bat and fiddling with it. The remnants of a pizza and Yoo-Hoo dinner sit next to him. His white uniform in a pile in the corner. There's a BUZZ at the door. KAFFEE's not expecting anyone. He goes to the door. KAFFEE Who is it? JO (O.S.) It's me. KAFFEE opens the door and JO walks in. KAFFEE I've really missed you, Jo. I was just saying to myself, "It's been almost three hours since I last saw -- " JO Markinson resigned his commission. KAFFEE (pause) When? JO This afternoon. Sometime after we left. KAFFEE I'll talk to him in the morning. JO I already tried, I can't find him. KAFFEE You tried? Joanne, you're coming dangerously close to the textbook definition of interfering with a government investigation. JO hands KAFFEE the file she's been holding. JO I'm Louden Downey's attorney. KAFFEE's stunned. He opens the file and begins to read. JO (continuing) Aunt Ginny. She said she feels like she's known me for years. I suggested that she might feel more comfortable if I were directly involved with the case. She had Louden sign the papers about an hour ago. KAFFEE looks up. Still too stunned to say anything. Then finally... KAFFEE I suppose it's way too much to hope that you're just making this up to bother me. JO Don't worry, I'm not gonna make a motion for separation, you're still lead counsel. KAFFEE hands her back the file. KAFFEE Splendid. JO I think Kendrick ordered the Code Red. (beat) So do you. CUT TO: INT. A HOLDING ROOM IN THE BRIG - NIGHT DAWSON and DOWNEY come to attention as KAFFEE and JO are led in. DAWSON Officer on deck, ten hut. KAFFEE starts in immediately. KAFFEE Did Kendrick order the code red? DAWSON Sir? KAFFEE Don't say sir like I just asked you if you cleaned the latrine. You heard what I said. Did Lt. Kendrick order you guys to give Santiago a code red? DAWSON Yes sir. KAFFEE (to Downey) Did he? DOWNEY Yes sir. KAFFEE You mind telling me why the hell you never mentioned this before? DAWSON You didn't ask us, sir. KAFFEE Cutie-pie shit's not gonna win you a place in my heart, corporal, I get paid no matter how much time you spend in jail. DAWSON Yes

prison

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

was damn funny. Jo moves close to KAFFEE to say this with a degree of confidentiality. JO I do know you. Daniel AlliStair Kaffee, born June 8th, 1964 at Boston Mercy Hospital. Your father's Lionel Kaffee, former Navy Judge Advocate and Attorney General, of the United States, died 1985. You went to Harvard Law on a Navy scholarship, probably because that's what your father wanted you to do, and now you're just treading water for the three years you've gotta serve in the JAG Corps, just kinda layin' low til you can get out and get a real job. And if that's the situation, that's fine, I won't tell anyone. But my feeling is that if this case is handled in the same fast-food, slick-ass, Persian Bazaar manner with which you seem to handle everything else, something's gonna get missed. And I wouldn't be doing my job if I allowed Dawson and Downey to spend any more time in prison than absolutely necessary, because their attorney had pre- determined the path of least resistance. KAFFEE can't help but be impressed by that speech. KAFFEE Wow. (beat) I'm sexually aroused, Commander. JO I don't think your clients murdered anybody. KAFFEE What are you basing this on? JO There was no intent. KAFFEE The doctor's report says that Santiago died of asphyxiation brought on by acute lactic acidosis, and that the nature of the acidosis strongly suggests poisoning. (beat) Now, I don't know what any of that means, but it sounds pretty bad. JO Santiago died at one a.m. At three the doctor was unable to determine the cause of death, but two hours later he said it was poison. KAFFEE Oh, now I see what you're saying. It had to be Professor Plum in the library with the candlestick. JO I'm gonna speak to your supervisor. KAFFEE Okay. You go straight up Pennsylvania Avenue. It's a big white house with pillars in front. JO Thank you. KAFFEE I don't think you'll have much luck, though. I was assigned by Division, remember? Somebody over there thinks I'm a good lawyer. So while I appreciate your interest and admire your enthusiasm, I think I can pretty much handle things myself. JO Do you know what a code red is? KAFFEE doesn't, but he doesn't say anything. JO (continuing) What a pity. CUT TO: INT. THE BRIG - DAY And an M.P. is leading KAFFEE and SAM down to DAWSON and DOWNEY's cell. M.P. Officer on deck, ten-hut. DAWSON and DOWNEY come to attention. Through the following, the M.P. will unlock the call door and let the lawyers in. DAWSON Sir, Lance Corporal Harold W. Dawson, sir. Rifle Security Company Windward, Second Platoon, Delta. KAFFEE Someone hasn't been working and playing well with others, Harold. DAWSON Sir, yes sir! DOWNEY Sir, PFC Louden Downey. KAFFEE I'm Daniel Kaffee, this is Sam Weinerg, you can sitdown. DAWSON and DOWNEY aren't too comfortable sitting in the presence of officers, but they do as they're told. KAFFEE's pulled out some documents, SAM's sitting on one of the cots taking notes. KAFFEE (continuing; to DAWSON) Is this your signature? DAWSON Yes sir. KAFFEE You don't have to call me sir. (to DOWNEY) Is this your signature? DOWNEY Sir, yes sir. KAFFEE And you certainly don't have to do it twice in one sentence. Harold, what's a Code Red? DAWSON Sir, a Code Red is a disciplinary engagement. KAFFEE What does that mean, exactly? DAWSON Sir, a marine falls out of line, it's up to the men in his unit to get him back on track. KAFFEE What's a garden variety Code Red? DAWSON Sir? KAFFEE Harold, you say sir and I turn around and look for my father. Danny, Daniel, Kaffee. Garden variety; typical. What's a basic Code Red? DAWSON Sir, a marine has refused to bathe on a regular basis. The men in his squad would give him a G.I. shower. KAFFEE What's that? DAWSON Scrub brushes, brillo pads, steel wool... SAM Beautiful. KAFFEE Was the attack on Santiago a Code Red? DAWSON Yes sir. KAFFEE (to DOWNEY) Do you ever talk? DAWSON Sir, Private Downey will answer any direct questions you ask him. KAFFEE Swell. Private Downey, the rag you stuffed in Santiago's mouth, was there poison on it? DOWNEY No sir. KAFFEE Silver polish, turpentine, anti- freeze... DOWNEY No sir. We were gonna shave his head, sir. KAFFEE When all of a sudden...? DOWNEY We saw blood drippinq out of his mouth. Then we pulled the tape off, and there was blood all down his face, sir. That's when Corporal Dawson called the ambulance. KAFFEE tries not to make too big a deal out of this last piece of news. KAFFEE (to DAWSON) Did anyone see you call the ambulance? DAWSON No sir. KAFFEE Were you there when the ambulance got there? DAWSON Yes sir, that's when we were taken under arrest. KAFFEE kinda strolls to the corner of the cell to think for a moment. SAM (to DAWSON) On the night of August 2nd, did you fire a shot across the fenceline into Cuba? DAWSON Yes sir. SAM Why? DAWSON My mirror engaged, sir. KAFFEE (to SAM) His mirror engaged? SAM For each American sentry post there's a Cuban counterpart. They're called mirrors. The corporal's claiming that his mirror was about to fire at him. KAFFEE Santiago's letter to the NIS said you fired illegally. He's saying that the guy, the mirror, he never made a move. DAWSON says nothing. KAFFEE (continuing) Oh, Harold? SAM is staring at DAWSON. KAFFEE (continuing) You see what I'm getting at? If Santiago didn't have anything on you, then why did you give him a Code Red? DAWSON Because he broke the chain of command, sir. KAFFEE He what? DAWSON He went outside his unit, sir. If he had a problem, he should've spoken to me, sir. Then his Sergeant, then Company Commander, then -- KAFFEE Yeah, yeah, alright. Harold, did you assault Santiago with the intent of killing him? DAWSON No sir. KAFFEE What was your intent? DAWSON To train him, sir. KAFFEE Train him to do what? DAWSON Train him to think of his unit before himself. To respect the code. SAM What's the code? DAWSON Unit Corps God Country. SAM I beg your pardon? DAWSON Unit Corps God Country, sir. KAFFEE The Goverrment of the United States wants to charge you two with murder. You want me to go to the prosecutor with unit, corps, god, country? DAWSON stares at KAFFEE. DAWSON That's our code, sir. KAFFEE takes a long moment. He picks up his briefcase and he and SAM move to the door. KAFFEE We'll be back. You guys need anything? Books paper, cigarettes, a ham sandwich? DAWSON Sir. No thank you. Sir. KAFFEE smiles at DAWSON. KAFFEE Harold, I think there's a concept you better start warming up to. DAWSON Sir? KAFFEE I'm the only friend you've got. And as KAFFEE and SAM walk out the open cell door, DAWSON and DOWNEY come to attention and snap a salute. They hold the salute until KAFFEE and SAM are well out of sight, and we CUT TO: INT. KAFFEE'S OFFICE - DAY He's packing up stuff into his briefcase at the end of the work day. Lt. JACK ROSS, a marine lawyer maybe two years older than Kaffee, opens the door and walks in.. ROSS Dan Kaffee. KAFFEE Sailin' Jack Ross. ROSS Welcome to the big time. KAFFEE You think so? ROSS I hope for Dawson and Downey's sake you practice law better than you play softball. KAFFEE Unfortunately for Dawson and Downey, I don't do anything better than I play softball. What are we lookin' at? ROSS They plead guilty to manslaughter, I'll drop the conspiracy and the conduct unbecoming. 20 years, they'll be home in half that time. KAFFEE I want twelve. ROSS Can't do it. KAFFEE They called the ambulance, Jack. ROSS I don't care if they called the Avon Lady, they killed a marine. KAFFEE The rag was tested for poison. The autopsy, lab report, even the initial E.R. and C.O.D. reports. They all say the same thing: Maybe, maybe not. ROSS The Chief of Internal Medicine at the Guantanamo Bay Naval hospital says he's sure. KAFFEE What do you know about Code Reds? ROSS smiles and shakes his head. ROSS Oh man. He closes the office door. ROSS (continuing) Are we off the record? KAFFEE You tell me. ROSS (pause) I'm gonna give you the twelve years, but before you go getting yourself into trouble tomorrow, you should know this: The platoon commander Lt. Jonathan Kendrick, had a meeting with the men. And he specifically told them not to touch Santiago. KAFFEE holds for a moment. Dawson and Downey neglected to mention this... He packs up his briefcase and cleats. KAFFEE I'll talk to you when I get back. ROSS Hey, we got a little four-on-four going tomorrow night. When does your plane get in? CUT TO: EXT. THE PARKING LOT - DUSK It's dusk and people on the base are going home from work. We can see the flag being lowered in the background. KAFFEE's walking toward his car. JO intercepts him and starts walking along with him. JO Hi there. KAFFEE Any luck getting me replaced? JO Is there anyone in this command that you don't either drink or play softball with? KAFFEE Commander -- JO Listen, I came to make peace. We started off on the wrong foot. What do you say? Friends? KAFFEE Look, I don't -- JO By the way, I brought Downey some comic books he was asking for. The kid, Kaffee, I swear, he doesn't know where he is, he doesn't even know why he's been arrested. KAFFEE Commander -- JO You can call me Joanne. KAFFEE Joanne -- JO or Jo. KAFFEE Jo? JO Yes. KAFFEE Jo, if you ever speak to a client of mine again without my permission, I'll have you disbarred. Friends? JO I had authorization. KAFFEE From where? JO Downey's closest living relative, Ginny Miller, his aunt on his mother's side. KAFFEE You got authorization from Aunt Ginny? JO I gave her a call like you asked. Very nice woman, we talked for about an hour. KAFFEE You got authorization from Aunt Ginny. JO Perfectly within my province. KAFFEE Does Aunt Ginny have a barn? We can hold the trial there. I can sew the costumes, and maybe his Uncle Goober can be the judge. Jo steps aside and lets KAFFEE got into his car. JO I'm going to Cuba with you tomorrow. KAFFEE And the hits just keep on comin'. HOLD on KAFFEE and Jo. JO smiles. CUT TO: EXT. SIDEWALK NEWSSTAND - DUSK KAFFEE IN HIS CAR He's driving down a Washington street and pulls over at a sidewalk newsstand. He gets out of his car, leaving the lights flashing, and runs up to the newsstand. As he plunks his 35 cents down and picks up a newspaper, he engages in his daily ritual with LUTHER, the newsstand operator. KAFFEE How's it goin', Luther? LUTHER Another day, another dollar, captain. KAFFEE You gotta play 'em as they lay, Luther. LUTHER What comes around, goes around, you know what I'm sayin'. KAFFEE If you can't beat 'em, join 'em. LUTHER Hey, if you've got your health, you got everything. KAFFEE Love makes the world go round. I'll see you tomorrow, Luther. And we CUT TO: INT. SAM'S LIVING ROOM - NIGHT A baby sleeping in a crib pull rack to reveal SAM is standing over the crib. KAFFEE's sitting on a beer. SAM When Nancy gets back, you're my witness. The baby spoke. My daughter said a word. KAFFEE Your daughter made a sound, Sam, I'm not sure it was a word. SAM Oh come on, it was a word. KAFFEE Okay. SAM You heard her. The girl sat here, pointed, and said "Pa". She did. She said "Pa". KAFFEE She was pointing at a doorknob. SAM That's right. Pointing, as if to say, "Pa, look, a doorknob". SAM joins KAFFEE in the living room. KAFFEE Jack Ross came to see me today. He offered me twelve years. SAM That's what you wanted. KAFFEE I know, and I'll... I guess, I mean -- (beat) I'll take it. SAM So? KAFFEE It took albout 45 seconds. He barely put up a fight. SAM (beat) Danny, take the twelve years, it's a gift. KAFFEE finishes off his beer, and stands. KAFFEE You don't believe their story, do you? You think they ought to go to jail for the rest of their lives. SAM I believe every word they said. And I think they ought to go to jail for the rest of their lives. KAFFEE nods and puts down the empty beer bottle. KAFFEE I'll see you tomorrow. Sam opens the front door for him and they stand out on the stoop for a moment. SAM Remember to wear your whites, it's hot down there. KAFFEE I don't like the whites. SAM Nobody likes the whites, but we're going to Cuba in August. You got Dramamine? KAFFEE Dramamine keeps you cool? SAM Dramamine keeps you from throwing up, you get sick when you fly. KAFFEE I get sick when I fly because I'm afraid of crashing into a large mountain, I don't think Dramamine'll help. SAM I've got some oregano, I hear that works pretty good. KAFFEE Yeah, right. KAFFEE starts toward his car, then turns around. KAFFEE (continuing) You know, Ross said the strangest thing to me right before I left. He said the platoon commander Lieutenant Jonathan Kendrick had a meeting with the men and specifically told them not to touch Santiago. SAM So? KAFFEE I never mentioned Kendrick. I don't even know who he is. (beat) What the hell. (beat) I'll see you tomorrow. We hold for a moment on KAFFEE as he walks to his car, then CUT TO: EXT. THE AIRSTRIP AT GUANTANAMO BAY - DAY The whole place, in stark contrast to the Washington Navy Yard, is ready to go to war. Fighter jets line the tarmac. Ground crews re-fuel planes. Hurried activity. A 36 seat Airforce Jet rolls to a stop on the tarmac and a stair unit is brought up. HOWARD, a marine corporal, is waiting by the stairway as the passengers begin to got off. Mostly MARINES, a few SAILORS, a couple of CIVILIANS, and KAFFEE, JO and SAM. KAFFEE and SAM are wearing their summer whites, JO is in khakis. KAFFEE and SAM stare out at what they see: They're not in Kansas anymore. HOWARD shouts over the noise from the planes. HOWARD Lieutenants Kaffee and Weinberg? KAFFEE (shouting) Yeah. JO Commander Galloway. HOWARD I'm Corporal Howard, ma'am, I'm to escort you to the Windward side of the base. JO Thank you. HOWARD I've got some camouflage jackets in the back of the jeep, sirs, I'll have to ask you both to put them on. KAFFEE Camouflage jackets? HOWARD Regulations, sir. We'll be riding pretty close to the fenceline. The Cubans see an officer wearing white, they think it's someone they might wanna take a shot at. KAFFEE turns and glares at SAM. KAFFEE Good call, Sam. CUT TO: EXT. CUBAN ROAD - THE JEEP - DAY Tearing along down the road, and now we see a beautiful expanse of water, maybe 1000 yards across. It's a section of Guantanamo Bay. HOWARD (shouting) We'll just hop on the ferry and be over there in no time. KAFFEE (shouting) Whoa! Hold it! We gotta take a boat?! HOWARD Yes sir, to get to the other side of the bay. KAFFEE Nobody said anything about a boat. HOWARD (shouting) Is there a problem, sir? KAFFEE (shouting) No. No problem. I'm just not that crazy about boats, that's all. JO (shouting) Jesus Christ, Kaffee, you're in the Navy for cryin' out loud! KAFFEE (shouting) Nobody likes her very much. HOWARD (shouting) Yes sir. The jeep drives on and we CUT TO: JESSEP, MARKINSON and KENDRICK are standing as the LAWYERS are led in. JESSEP Nathan Jessep, come on in and siddown. KAFFEE Thank you. I'm Daniel Kaffee, I'm the attorney for Dawson and Downey. This is Joanne Galloway, she's observing and evaluating -- JO (shaking hands) Colonel. JESSEP Pleased to meet you, Commander. KAFFEE Sam Weinberg. He has no responsibility here whatsoever. JESSEP I've asked Captain Markinson and Lt. Kendrick to join us. MARKINSON Lt. Kaffee, I had the pleasure of seeing your father once. I was a teenager and he spoke at my high school. KAFFEE smiles and nods. JESSEP Lionel Kaffee? KAFFEE Yes sir. JESSEP Well what do you know. Son, this man's dad once made a lot of enemies down in your neck of the woods. Jefferson vs. Madison County School District. The folks down there said a little black girl couldn't go to an all white school, Lionel Kaffee said we'll just see about that. How the hell is your dad? KAFFEE He passed away seven years ago, colonel. JESSEP (pause) Well... don't I feel like the fuckin, asshole. KAFFEE Not at all, sir. JESSEP Well, what can we do for you, Danny. KAFFEE Not much at all, sir, I'm afraid. This is really a formality more than anything else. The JAG Corps insists that I interview all the relevant witnesses. JO The JAG Corps can be demanding that way. JESSEP smiles. JESSEP Jonanthan'll take you out and show you what you wanna see, then we can all hook up for lunch, how does that sound? KAFFEE Fine, sir. CUT TO: EXT. THE FENCELINE - DAY A SQUAD OF MARINES jogs by as a jeep carrying KENDRICK and the three LAWYERS cruises down the road. We FOLLOW the jeep. KAFFEE I understand you had a meeting with your men that afternoon. KENDRICK Yes. KAFFEE What'd you guys talk about? KENDRICK I told the men that there was an informer among us. And that despite any desire they might have to seek retribution, Private Santiago was not to be harmed in any way. KAFFEE What time was that meeting? KENDRICK Sixteen-hundred. KAFFEE turns around and looks at SAM. SAM (leaning forward) Four o'clock. CUT TO: INT. THE BARRACKS CORRIDOR - DAY KENDRICK leads the LAWYERS down the corridor to Santiago's room. Two strips of tape which warn DO NOT ENTER - AT ORDER OF THE MILITARY POLICE are crisscrossed over the closed door. They open the door and step under the tape and walk into INT. SANTIAGO'S ROOM - DAY The room is exactly an it was left that night. The un-made bed, the chair knocked over... The LAWYERS look around for a moment. The room is sparse. Kaffee goes to the closet and opens it: A row of uniforms hanging neatly. He thumbs through then for a second, but there's nothing there. He opens the footlocker: Socks, underwear... all folded to marine corp precision... A shaving kit, a couple of photographs, a pad of writing paper and some envelopes... Kaffee closes the footlocker. KAFFEE Sam, somebody should see about getting this stuff to his parents. We don't need it anymore. KENDRICK Actually, the uniforms belong to the marine corps. The LAWYERS take a moment. KAFFEE Lt. Kendrick -- can I call you Jon? KENDRICK No, you may not. KAFFEE (beat) Have I done something to offend you? KENDRICK No, I like all you Navy boys. Every time we've gotta go someplace and fight, you fellas always give us a ride. JO Lt. Kendrick, do you think Santiago was murdered? KENDRICK Commander, I believe in God, and in his son Jesus Christ, and because I do, I can say this: Private Santiago is dead and that's a tragedy. But he's dead because he had no code. He's dead because he had no honor. And God was watching. SAM turns to KAFFEE. SAM How do you feel about that theory? KAFFEE (beat) Sounds good. Let's move on. SAM and KENDRICK walk out the door. JO stops KAFFEE. JO You planning on doing any investigating or are you just gonna take the guided tour? KAFFEE (beat) I'm pacing myself. CUT TO: INT. THE OFFICERS CLUB - DAY JESSEP, MARKINSON, KENDRICK and the LAWYERS are seated at a table in the corner. Stewards clear the lunch dishes and pour coffee. Jessep is finishing a story. JESSEP ...And they spent the next three hours running around, looking for Americans to surrender to. JESSEP laughs. KENDRICK joins him. SAM and KAFFEE force a laugh. MARKINSON forces a smile. JO remains silent. JESSEP (continuing; to the STEWARDS) That was delicious, men, thank you. STEWARD Our pleasure, sir. KAFFEE Colonel just need to ask you a couple of questions about August 6th. JESSEP Shoot. KAFFEE On the morning of the sixth, you were contacted by an NIS angent who said that Santiago had tipped him off to an illegal fenceline shooting. JESSEP Yes. KAFFEE Santiago was gonna reveal the person's name in exchange for a transfer. An I getting this right? JESSEP Yes. KAFFEE If you feel there are any details that I'm missing, you should free to speak up. JESSEP's not quite sure what to say to this Navy Lawyer Lieutenant-Smartass guy who just gave him permission to speak freely on his own base. JESSEP Thank you. KAFFEE Now it was at this point that you called Captain Markinson and Lt. Kendrick into your office? JESSEP Yes. KAFFEE And what happened then? JESSEP We agreed that for his own safety, Santiago should be transferred off the base. Here's something else KAFFEE didn't know. Neither did Jo. SAM jots something down on a small notepad. MARKINSON doesn't flinch. KAFFEE Santiago was set to be transferred? JESSEP On the first available flight to the states. Six the next morning. Three hours too late as it turned out. KAFFEE nods. KAFFEE Yeah. There's silence for a moment. KAFFEE takes a sip of his coffee. Then drains the cup and puts it down. KAFFEE (continuing) Alright, that's all I have. Thanks very much for your time. KENDRICK The corporal's got the jeep outside, he'll take you back to the airstrip. KAFFEE (standing) Thank you. JO Wait a minute, I've got some questions. KAFFEE No you don't. JO Yes I do. KAFFEE No you don't. JO Colonel, on the morning that Santiago died, did you meet with Doctor Stone between three and five? KAFFEE Jo -- JESSEP Of course I met with the doctor. One of my men was dead. KAFFEE (to JO) See? The man was dead. Let's go. JO (to JESSEP) I was wondering if you've ever heard the term Code Red. KAFFEE Jo -- JESSEP I've heard the term, yes. JO Colonel, this past February, you received a cautionary memo from the Naval Investigative Service, warning that the practice of enlisted men disciplining their own wasn't to be condoned by officers. JESSEP I submit to you that whoever wrote that memo has never served on the working end of a Soviet-made Cuban Ml-Al6 Assault Rifle. However, the directive having come from the NIS, I gave it its due attention. What's your point, Jo? KAFFEE She has no point. She often has no point. It's part of her charm. We're outta here. Thank you. JO My point is that I think code reds still go on down here. Do Code Reds still happen on this base, colonel? KAFFEE Jo, the colonel doesn't need to answer that. JO Yes he does. KAFFEE No, he really doesn't. JO Yeah, he really does. Colonel? JESSEP You know it just hit me. She outranks you, Danny. KAFFEE Yes sir. JESSEP I want to tell you something Danny and listen up 'cause I mean this: You're the luckiest man in the world. There is, believe me gentlemen, nothing sexier on earth than a woman you have to salute in the morning. Promote 'em all I say. JO's not upset. JO's not mad. But she's gonna ask her question 'til she gets an answer. JO Colonel, the practice of code Reds is still condoned by officers on this base, isn't it? JESSEP You see my problem is, of course, that I'm a Colonel. I'll just have to keep taking cold showers 'til they elect some gal President. JO I need an answer to my question, sir. JESSEP Take caution in your tone, Commander. I'm a fair guy, but this fuckin' heat's making me absolutely crazy. You want to know about code reds? On the record I tell you that I discourage the practice in accordance with the NIS directive. Off the record I tell you that it's an invaluable part of close infantry training, and if it happens to go on without my knowledge, so be it. I run my base how I run my base. You want to investigate me, roll the dice and take your chances. I eat breakfast 80 yards away from 4000 Cubans who are trained to kill me. So don't for one second think you're gonna come down here, flash a badge, and make me nervous. A moment of tense silence before -- KAFFEE Let's go. Colonel, I'll just need a copy of Santiago's transfer order. JESSEP What's that? KAFFEE Santiago's transfer order. You guys have paper work on that kind of thing, I just need it for the file. JESSEP For the file. KAFFEE Yeah. JESSEP (pause) Of course you can have a copy of the transfer order. For the file. I'm here to help anyway I can. KAFFEE Thank you. JESSEP You believe that, don't you? Danny? That I'm here to help anyway I can? KAFFEE Of course. JESSEP The corporal'll run you by Ordinance on your way out to the airstrip. You can have all the transfer orders you want. KAFFEE (to JO and SAM) Let's go. The LAWYERS start to leave. JESSEP But you have to ask me nicely. KAFFEE stops. Turns around. Sam and JO stop and turn. KAFFEE I beg your pardon? JESSEP You have to ask me nicely. You see, Danny, I can deal with the bullets and the bombs and the blood. I can deal with the heat and the stress and the fear. I don't want money and I don't want medals. What I want is for you to stand there in that faggoty white uniform, and with your Harvard mouth, extend me some fuckin' courtesy. You gotta ask me nicely. KAFFEE and JESSEP are frozen. Everyone'staring at Kaffee; The OFFICERS at their tables... KENDRICK... SAM... MARKINSON... JO... KAFFEE makes his decision. KAFFEE Colonel Jessep... if it's not too much trouble, I'd like a copy of the transfer order. Sir. JESSEP smiles. JESSEP No problem. HOLD for a moment. JO's very disappointed. JESSEP stands there and watches the LAWYERS as they turn and leave the Officer's Club. JESSEP (continuing) I hate casualties, Matthew. There are casualties even in victory. A marine smothers a grenade and saves his platoon, that marine's a hero. The foundation of the unit, the fabric of this base, the spirit of the Corps, they are things worth fighting for. MARKINSON looks at the ground. JESSEP (continuing) Dawson and Downey, they don't know it, but they're smothering a grenade. MARKINSON looks up as we CUT TO: EXT. ANDREWS AIRFORCE BASE - DUSK As a plane touches down on the runway. It's dusk in Washington and CUT TO: EXT. KAFFEE'S APARTMENT - DAY A little one-bedroom. Just the essential furniture, barely even that. KAFFEE's sitting and watching a baseball came on t.v. He's holding a copy of The Baseball Encyclopedia, normally his favorite reading material, but right now he's having trouble keeping his mind in it. He's holding a baseball bat and fiddling with it. The remnants of a pizza and Yoo-Hoo dinner sit next to him. His white uniform in a pile in the corner. There's a BUZZ at the door. KAFFEE's not expecting anyone. He goes to the door. KAFFEE Who is it? JO (O.S.) It's me. KAFFEE opens the door and JO walks in. KAFFEE I've really missed you, Jo. I was just saying to myself, "It's been almost three hours since I last saw -- " JO Markinson resigned his commission. KAFFEE (pause) When? JO This afternoon. Sometime after we left. KAFFEE I'll talk to him in the morning. JO I already tried, I can't find him. KAFFEE You tried? Joanne, you're coming dangerously close to the textbook definition of interfering with a government investigation. JO hands KAFFEE the file she's been holding. JO I'm Louden Downey's attorney. KAFFEE's stunned. He opens the file and begins to read. JO (continuing) Aunt Ginny. She said she feels like she's known me for years. I suggested that she might feel more comfortable if I were directly involved with the case. She had Louden sign the papers about an hour ago. KAFFEE looks up. Still too stunned to say anything. Then finally... KAFFEE I suppose it's way too much to hope that you're just making this up to bother me. JO Don't worry, I'm not gonna make a motion for separation, you're still lead counsel. KAFFEE hands her back the file. KAFFEE Splendid. JO I think Kendrick ordered the Code Red. (beat) So do you. CUT TO: INT. A HOLDING ROOM IN THE BRIG - NIGHT DAWSON and DOWNEY come to attention as KAFFEE and JO are led in. DAWSON Officer on deck, ten hut. KAFFEE starts in immediately. KAFFEE Did Kendrick order the code red? DAWSON Sir? KAFFEE Don't say sir like I just asked you if you cleaned the latrine. You heard what I said. Did Lt. Kendrick order you guys to give Santiago a code red? DAWSON Yes sir. KAFFEE (to Downey) Did he? DOWNEY Yes sir. KAFFEE You mind telling me why the hell you never mentioned this before? DAWSON You didn't ask us, sir. KAFFEE Cutie-pie shit's not gonna win you a place in my heart, corporal, I get paid no matter how much time you spend in jail. DAWSON Yes

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was damn funny. Jo moves close to KAFFEE to say this with a degree of confidentiality. JO I do know you. Daniel AlliStair Kaffee, born June 8th, 1964 at Boston Mercy Hospital. Your father's Lionel Kaffee, former Navy Judge Advocate and Attorney General, of the United States, died 1985. You went to Harvard Law on a Navy scholarship, probably because that's what your father wanted you to do, and now you're just treading water for the three years you've gotta serve in the JAG Corps, just kinda layin' low til you can get out and get a real job. And if that's the situation, that's fine, I won't tell anyone. But my feeling is that if this case is handled in the same fast-food, slick-ass, Persian Bazaar manner with which you seem to handle everything else, something's gonna get missed. And I wouldn't be doing my job if I allowed Dawson and Downey to spend any more time in prison than absolutely necessary, because their attorney had pre- determined the path of least resistance. KAFFEE can't help but be impressed by that speech. KAFFEE Wow. (beat) I'm sexually aroused, Commander. JO I don't think your clients murdered anybody. KAFFEE What are you basing this on? JO There was no intent. KAFFEE The doctor's report says that Santiago died of asphyxiation brought on by acute lactic acidosis, and that the nature of the acidosis strongly suggests poisoning. (beat) Now, I don't know what any of that means, but it sounds pretty bad. JO Santiago died at one a.m. At three the doctor was unable to determine the cause of death, but two hours later he said it was poison. KAFFEE Oh, now I see what you're saying. It had to be Professor Plum in the library with the candlestick. JO I'm gonna speak to your supervisor. KAFFEE Okay. You go straight up Pennsylvania Avenue. It's a big white house with pillars in front. JO Thank you. KAFFEE I don't think you'll have much luck, though. I was assigned by Division, remember? Somebody over there thinks I'm a good lawyer. So while I appreciate your interest and admire your enthusiasm, I think I can pretty much handle things myself. JO Do you know what a code red is? KAFFEE doesn't, but he doesn't say anything. JO (continuing) What a pity. CUT TO: INT. THE BRIG - DAY And an M.P. is leading KAFFEE and SAM down to DAWSON and DOWNEY's cell. M.P. Officer on deck, ten-hut. DAWSON and DOWNEY come to attention. Through the following, the M.P. will unlock the call door and let the lawyers in. DAWSON Sir, Lance Corporal Harold W. Dawson, sir. Rifle Security Company Windward, Second Platoon, Delta. KAFFEE Someone hasn't been working and playing well with others, Harold. DAWSON Sir, yes sir! DOWNEY Sir, PFC Louden Downey. KAFFEE I'm Daniel Kaffee, this is Sam Weinerg, you can sitdown. DAWSON and DOWNEY aren't too comfortable sitting in the presence of officers, but they do as they're told. KAFFEE's pulled out some documents, SAM's sitting on one of the cots taking notes. KAFFEE (continuing; to DAWSON) Is this your signature? DAWSON Yes sir. KAFFEE You don't have to call me sir. (to DOWNEY) Is this your signature? DOWNEY Sir, yes sir. KAFFEE And you certainly don't have to do it twice in one sentence. Harold, what's a Code Red? DAWSON Sir, a Code Red is a disciplinary engagement. KAFFEE What does that mean, exactly? DAWSON Sir, a marine falls out of line, it's up to the men in his unit to get him back on track. KAFFEE What's a garden variety Code Red? DAWSON Sir? KAFFEE Harold, you say sir and I turn around and look for my father. Danny, Daniel, Kaffee. Garden variety; typical. What's a basic Code Red? DAWSON Sir, a marine has refused to bathe on a regular basis. The men in his squad would give him a G.I. shower. KAFFEE What's that? DAWSON Scrub brushes, brillo pads, steel wool... SAM Beautiful. KAFFEE Was the attack on Santiago a Code Red? DAWSON Yes sir. KAFFEE (to DOWNEY) Do you ever talk? DAWSON Sir, Private Downey will answer any direct questions you ask him. KAFFEE Swell. Private Downey, the rag you stuffed in Santiago's mouth, was there poison on it? DOWNEY No sir. KAFFEE Silver polish, turpentine, anti- freeze... DOWNEY No sir. We were gonna shave his head, sir. KAFFEE When all of a sudden...? DOWNEY We saw blood drippinq out of his mouth. Then we pulled the tape off, and there was blood all down his face, sir. That's when Corporal Dawson called the ambulance. KAFFEE tries not to make too big a deal out of this last piece of news. KAFFEE (to DAWSON) Did anyone see you call the ambulance? DAWSON No sir. KAFFEE Were you there when the ambulance got there? DAWSON Yes sir, that's when we were taken under arrest. KAFFEE kinda strolls to the corner of the cell to think for a moment. SAM (to DAWSON) On the night of August 2nd, did you fire a shot across the fenceline into Cuba? DAWSON Yes sir. SAM Why? DAWSON My mirror engaged, sir. KAFFEE (to SAM) His mirror engaged? SAM For each American sentry post there's a Cuban counterpart. They're called mirrors. The corporal's claiming that his mirror was about to fire at him. KAFFEE Santiago's letter to the NIS said you fired illegally. He's saying that the guy, the mirror, he never made a move. DAWSON says nothing. KAFFEE (continuing) Oh, Harold? SAM is staring at DAWSON. KAFFEE (continuing) You see what I'm getting at? If Santiago didn't have anything on you, then why did you give him a Code Red? DAWSON Because he broke the chain of command, sir. KAFFEE He what? DAWSON He went outside his unit, sir. If he had a problem, he should've spoken to me, sir. Then his Sergeant, then Company Commander, then -- KAFFEE Yeah, yeah, alright. Harold, did you assault Santiago with the intent of killing him? DAWSON No sir. KAFFEE What was your intent? DAWSON To train him, sir. KAFFEE Train him to do what? DAWSON Train him to think of his unit before himself. To respect the code. SAM What's the code? DAWSON Unit Corps God Country. SAM I beg your pardon? DAWSON Unit Corps God Country, sir. KAFFEE The Goverrment of the United States wants to charge you two with murder. You want me to go to the prosecutor with unit, corps, god, country? DAWSON stares at KAFFEE. DAWSON That's our code, sir. KAFFEE takes a long moment. He picks up his briefcase and he and SAM move to the door. KAFFEE We'll be back. You guys need anything? Books paper, cigarettes, a ham sandwich? DAWSON Sir. No thank you. Sir. KAFFEE smiles at DAWSON. KAFFEE Harold, I think there's a concept you better start warming up to. DAWSON Sir? KAFFEE I'm the only friend you've got. And as KAFFEE and SAM walk out the open cell door, DAWSON and DOWNEY come to attention and snap a salute. They hold the salute until KAFFEE and SAM are well out of sight, and we CUT TO: INT. KAFFEE'S OFFICE - DAY He's packing up stuff into his briefcase at the end of the work day. Lt. JACK ROSS, a marine lawyer maybe two years older than Kaffee, opens the door and walks in.. ROSS Dan Kaffee. KAFFEE Sailin' Jack Ross. ROSS Welcome to the big time. KAFFEE You think so? ROSS I hope for Dawson and Downey's sake you practice law better than you play softball. KAFFEE Unfortunately for Dawson and Downey, I don't do anything better than I play softball. What are we lookin' at? ROSS They plead guilty to manslaughter, I'll drop the conspiracy and the conduct unbecoming. 20 years, they'll be home in half that time. KAFFEE I want twelve. ROSS Can't do it. KAFFEE They called the ambulance, Jack. ROSS I don't care if they called the Avon Lady, they killed a marine. KAFFEE The rag was tested for poison. The autopsy, lab report, even the initial E.R. and C.O.D. reports. They all say the same thing: Maybe, maybe not. ROSS The Chief of Internal Medicine at the Guantanamo Bay Naval hospital says he's sure. KAFFEE What do you know about Code Reds? ROSS smiles and shakes his head. ROSS Oh man. He closes the office door. ROSS (continuing) Are we off the record? KAFFEE You tell me. ROSS (pause) I'm gonna give you the twelve years, but before you go getting yourself into trouble tomorrow, you should know this: The platoon commander Lt. Jonathan Kendrick, had a meeting with the men. And he specifically told them not to touch Santiago. KAFFEE holds for a moment. Dawson and Downey neglected to mention this... He packs up his briefcase and cleats. KAFFEE I'll talk to you when I get back. ROSS Hey, we got a little four-on-four going tomorrow night. When does your plane get in? CUT TO: EXT. THE PARKING LOT - DUSK It's dusk and people on the base are going home from work. We can see the flag being lowered in the background. KAFFEE's walking toward his car. JO intercepts him and starts walking along with him. JO Hi there. KAFFEE Any luck getting me replaced? JO Is there anyone in this command that you don't either drink or play softball with? KAFFEE Commander -- JO Listen, I came to make peace. We started off on the wrong foot. What do you say? Friends? KAFFEE Look, I don't -- JO By the way, I brought Downey some comic books he was asking for. The kid, Kaffee, I swear, he doesn't know where he is, he doesn't even know why he's been arrested. KAFFEE Commander -- JO You can call me Joanne. KAFFEE Joanne -- JO or Jo. KAFFEE Jo? JO Yes. KAFFEE Jo, if you ever speak to a client of mine again without my permission, I'll have you disbarred. Friends? JO I had authorization. KAFFEE From where? JO Downey's closest living relative, Ginny Miller, his aunt on his mother's side. KAFFEE You got authorization from Aunt Ginny? JO I gave her a call like you asked. Very nice woman, we talked for about an hour. KAFFEE You got authorization from Aunt Ginny. JO Perfectly within my province. KAFFEE Does Aunt Ginny have a barn? We can hold the trial there. I can sew the costumes, and maybe his Uncle Goober can be the judge. Jo steps aside and lets KAFFEE got into his car. JO I'm going to Cuba with you tomorrow. KAFFEE And the hits just keep on comin'. HOLD on KAFFEE and Jo. JO smiles. CUT TO: EXT. SIDEWALK NEWSSTAND - DUSK KAFFEE IN HIS CAR He's driving down a Washington street and pulls over at a sidewalk newsstand. He gets out of his car, leaving the lights flashing, and runs up to the newsstand. As he plunks his 35 cents down and picks up a newspaper, he engages in his daily ritual with LUTHER, the newsstand operator. KAFFEE How's it goin', Luther? LUTHER Another day, another dollar, captain. KAFFEE You gotta play 'em as they lay, Luther. LUTHER What comes around, goes around, you know what I'm sayin'. KAFFEE If you can't beat 'em, join 'em. LUTHER Hey, if you've got your health, you got everything. KAFFEE Love makes the world go round. I'll see you tomorrow, Luther. And we CUT TO: INT. SAM'S LIVING ROOM - NIGHT A baby sleeping in a crib pull rack to reveal SAM is standing over the crib. KAFFEE's sitting on a beer. SAM When Nancy gets back, you're my witness. The baby spoke. My daughter said a word. KAFFEE Your daughter made a sound, Sam, I'm not sure it was a word. SAM Oh come on, it was a word. KAFFEE Okay. SAM You heard her. The girl sat here, pointed, and said "Pa". She did. She said "Pa". KAFFEE She was pointing at a doorknob. SAM That's right. Pointing, as if to say, "Pa, look, a doorknob". SAM joins KAFFEE in the living room. KAFFEE Jack Ross came to see me today. He offered me twelve years. SAM That's what you wanted. KAFFEE I know, and I'll... I guess, I mean -- (beat) I'll take it. SAM So? KAFFEE It took albout 45 seconds. He barely put up a fight. SAM (beat) Danny, take the twelve years, it's a gift. KAFFEE finishes off his beer, and stands. KAFFEE You don't believe their story, do you? You think they ought to go to jail for the rest of their lives. SAM I believe every word they said. And I think they ought to go to jail for the rest of their lives. KAFFEE nods and puts down the empty beer bottle. KAFFEE I'll see you tomorrow. Sam opens the front door for him and they stand out on the stoop for a moment. SAM Remember to wear your whites, it's hot down there. KAFFEE I don't like the whites. SAM Nobody likes the whites, but we're going to Cuba in August. You got Dramamine? KAFFEE Dramamine keeps you cool? SAM Dramamine keeps you from throwing up, you get sick when you fly. KAFFEE I get sick when I fly because I'm afraid of crashing into a large mountain, I don't think Dramamine'll help. SAM I've got some oregano, I hear that works pretty good. KAFFEE Yeah, right. KAFFEE starts toward his car, then turns around. KAFFEE (continuing) You know, Ross said the strangest thing to me right before I left. He said the platoon commander Lieutenant Jonathan Kendrick had a meeting with the men and specifically told them not to touch Santiago. SAM So? KAFFEE I never mentioned Kendrick. I don't even know who he is. (beat) What the hell. (beat) I'll see you tomorrow. We hold for a moment on KAFFEE as he walks to his car, then CUT TO: EXT. THE AIRSTRIP AT GUANTANAMO BAY - DAY The whole place, in stark contrast to the Washington Navy Yard, is ready to go to war. Fighter jets line the tarmac. Ground crews re-fuel planes. Hurried activity. A 36 seat Airforce Jet rolls to a stop on the tarmac and a stair unit is brought up. HOWARD, a marine corporal, is waiting by the stairway as the passengers begin to got off. Mostly MARINES, a few SAILORS, a couple of CIVILIANS, and KAFFEE, JO and SAM. KAFFEE and SAM are wearing their summer whites, JO is in khakis. KAFFEE and SAM stare out at what they see: They're not in Kansas anymore. HOWARD shouts over the noise from the planes. HOWARD Lieutenants Kaffee and Weinberg? KAFFEE (shouting) Yeah. JO Commander Galloway. HOWARD I'm Corporal Howard, ma'am, I'm to escort you to the Windward side of the base. JO Thank you. HOWARD I've got some camouflage jackets in the back of the jeep, sirs, I'll have to ask you both to put them on. KAFFEE Camouflage jackets? HOWARD Regulations, sir. We'll be riding pretty close to the fenceline. The Cubans see an officer wearing white, they think it's someone they might wanna take a shot at. KAFFEE turns and glares at SAM. KAFFEE Good call, Sam. CUT TO: EXT. CUBAN ROAD - THE JEEP - DAY Tearing along down the road, and now we see a beautiful expanse of water, maybe 1000 yards across. It's a section of Guantanamo Bay. HOWARD (shouting) We'll just hop on the ferry and be over there in no time. KAFFEE (shouting) Whoa! Hold it! We gotta take a boat?! HOWARD Yes sir, to get to the other side of the bay. KAFFEE Nobody said anything about a boat. HOWARD (shouting) Is there a problem, sir? KAFFEE (shouting) No. No problem. I'm just not that crazy about boats, that's all. JO (shouting) Jesus Christ, Kaffee, you're in the Navy for cryin' out loud! KAFFEE (shouting) Nobody likes her very much. HOWARD (shouting) Yes sir. The jeep drives on and we CUT TO: JESSEP, MARKINSON and KENDRICK are standing as the LAWYERS are led in. JESSEP Nathan Jessep, come on in and siddown. KAFFEE Thank you. I'm Daniel Kaffee, I'm the attorney for Dawson and Downey. This is Joanne Galloway, she's observing and evaluating -- JO (shaking hands) Colonel. JESSEP Pleased to meet you, Commander. KAFFEE Sam Weinberg. He has no responsibility here whatsoever. JESSEP I've asked Captain Markinson and Lt. Kendrick to join us. MARKINSON Lt. Kaffee, I had the pleasure of seeing your father once. I was a teenager and he spoke at my high school. KAFFEE smiles and nods. JESSEP Lionel Kaffee? KAFFEE Yes sir. JESSEP Well what do you know. Son, this man's dad once made a lot of enemies down in your neck of the woods. Jefferson vs. Madison County School District. The folks down there said a little black girl couldn't go to an all white school, Lionel Kaffee said we'll just see about that. How the hell is your dad? KAFFEE He passed away seven years ago, colonel. JESSEP (pause) Well... don't I feel like the fuckin, asshole. KAFFEE Not at all, sir. JESSEP Well, what can we do for you, Danny. KAFFEE Not much at all, sir, I'm afraid. This is really a formality more than anything else. The JAG Corps insists that I interview all the relevant witnesses. JO The JAG Corps can be demanding that way. JESSEP smiles. JESSEP Jonanthan'll take you out and show you what you wanna see, then we can all hook up for lunch, how does that sound? KAFFEE Fine, sir. CUT TO: EXT. THE FENCELINE - DAY A SQUAD OF MARINES jogs by as a jeep carrying KENDRICK and the three LAWYERS cruises down the road. We FOLLOW the jeep. KAFFEE I understand you had a meeting with your men that afternoon. KENDRICK Yes. KAFFEE What'd you guys talk about? KENDRICK I told the men that there was an informer among us. And that despite any desire they might have to seek retribution, Private Santiago was not to be harmed in any way. KAFFEE What time was that meeting? KENDRICK Sixteen-hundred. KAFFEE turns around and looks at SAM. SAM (leaning forward) Four o'clock. CUT TO: INT. THE BARRACKS CORRIDOR - DAY KENDRICK leads the LAWYERS down the corridor to Santiago's room. Two strips of tape which warn DO NOT ENTER - AT ORDER OF THE MILITARY POLICE are crisscrossed over the closed door. They open the door and step under the tape and walk into INT. SANTIAGO'S ROOM - DAY The room is exactly an it was left that night. The un-made bed, the chair knocked over... The LAWYERS look around for a moment. The room is sparse. Kaffee goes to the closet and opens it: A row of uniforms hanging neatly. He thumbs through then for a second, but there's nothing there. He opens the footlocker: Socks, underwear... all folded to marine corp precision... A shaving kit, a couple of photographs, a pad of writing paper and some envelopes... Kaffee closes the footlocker. KAFFEE Sam, somebody should see about getting this stuff to his parents. We don't need it anymore. KENDRICK Actually, the uniforms belong to the marine corps. The LAWYERS take a moment. KAFFEE Lt. Kendrick -- can I call you Jon? KENDRICK No, you may not. KAFFEE (beat) Have I done something to offend you? KENDRICK No, I like all you Navy boys. Every time we've gotta go someplace and fight, you fellas always give us a ride. JO Lt. Kendrick, do you think Santiago was murdered? KENDRICK Commander, I believe in God, and in his son Jesus Christ, and because I do, I can say this: Private Santiago is dead and that's a tragedy. But he's dead because he had no code. He's dead because he had no honor. And God was watching. SAM turns to KAFFEE. SAM How do you feel about that theory? KAFFEE (beat) Sounds good. Let's move on. SAM and KENDRICK walk out the door. JO stops KAFFEE. JO You planning on doing any investigating or are you just gonna take the guided tour? KAFFEE (beat) I'm pacing myself. CUT TO: INT. THE OFFICERS CLUB - DAY JESSEP, MARKINSON, KENDRICK and the LAWYERS are seated at a table in the corner. Stewards clear the lunch dishes and pour coffee. Jessep is finishing a story. JESSEP ...And they spent the next three hours running around, looking for Americans to surrender to. JESSEP laughs. KENDRICK joins him. SAM and KAFFEE force a laugh. MARKINSON forces a smile. JO remains silent. JESSEP (continuing; to the STEWARDS) That was delicious, men, thank you. STEWARD Our pleasure, sir. KAFFEE Colonel just need to ask you a couple of questions about August 6th. JESSEP Shoot. KAFFEE On the morning of the sixth, you were contacted by an NIS angent who said that Santiago had tipped him off to an illegal fenceline shooting. JESSEP Yes. KAFFEE Santiago was gonna reveal the person's name in exchange for a transfer. An I getting this right? JESSEP Yes. KAFFEE If you feel there are any details that I'm missing, you should free to speak up. JESSEP's not quite sure what to say to this Navy Lawyer Lieutenant-Smartass guy who just gave him permission to speak freely on his own base. JESSEP Thank you. KAFFEE Now it was at this point that you called Captain Markinson and Lt. Kendrick into your office? JESSEP Yes. KAFFEE And what happened then? JESSEP We agreed that for his own safety, Santiago should be transferred off the base. Here's something else KAFFEE didn't know. Neither did Jo. SAM jots something down on a small notepad. MARKINSON doesn't flinch. KAFFEE Santiago was set to be transferred? JESSEP On the first available flight to the states. Six the next morning. Three hours too late as it turned out. KAFFEE nods. KAFFEE Yeah. There's silence for a moment. KAFFEE takes a sip of his coffee. Then drains the cup and puts it down. KAFFEE (continuing) Alright, that's all I have. Thanks very much for your time. KENDRICK The corporal's got the jeep outside, he'll take you back to the airstrip. KAFFEE (standing) Thank you. JO Wait a minute, I've got some questions. KAFFEE No you don't. JO Yes I do. KAFFEE No you don't. JO Colonel, on the morning that Santiago died, did you meet with Doctor Stone between three and five? KAFFEE Jo -- JESSEP Of course I met with the doctor. One of my men was dead. KAFFEE (to JO) See? The man was dead. Let's go. JO (to JESSEP) I was wondering if you've ever heard the term Code Red. KAFFEE Jo -- JESSEP I've heard the term, yes. JO Colonel, this past February, you received a cautionary memo from the Naval Investigative Service, warning that the practice of enlisted men disciplining their own wasn't to be condoned by officers. JESSEP I submit to you that whoever wrote that memo has never served on the working end of a Soviet-made Cuban Ml-Al6 Assault Rifle. However, the directive having come from the NIS, I gave it its due attention. What's your point, Jo? KAFFEE She has no point. She often has no point. It's part of her charm. We're outta here. Thank you. JO My point is that I think code reds still go on down here. Do Code Reds still happen on this base, colonel? KAFFEE Jo, the colonel doesn't need to answer that. JO Yes he does. KAFFEE No, he really doesn't. JO Yeah, he really does. Colonel? JESSEP You know it just hit me. She outranks you, Danny. KAFFEE Yes sir. JESSEP I want to tell you something Danny and listen up 'cause I mean this: You're the luckiest man in the world. There is, believe me gentlemen, nothing sexier on earth than a woman you have to salute in the morning. Promote 'em all I say. JO's not upset. JO's not mad. But she's gonna ask her question 'til she gets an answer. JO Colonel, the practice of code Reds is still condoned by officers on this base, isn't it? JESSEP You see my problem is, of course, that I'm a Colonel. I'll just have to keep taking cold showers 'til they elect some gal President. JO I need an answer to my question, sir. JESSEP Take caution in your tone, Commander. I'm a fair guy, but this fuckin' heat's making me absolutely crazy. You want to know about code reds? On the record I tell you that I discourage the practice in accordance with the NIS directive. Off the record I tell you that it's an invaluable part of close infantry training, and if it happens to go on without my knowledge, so be it. I run my base how I run my base. You want to investigate me, roll the dice and take your chances. I eat breakfast 80 yards away from 4000 Cubans who are trained to kill me. So don't for one second think you're gonna come down here, flash a badge, and make me nervous. A moment of tense silence before -- KAFFEE Let's go. Colonel, I'll just need a copy of Santiago's transfer order. JESSEP What's that? KAFFEE Santiago's transfer order. You guys have paper work on that kind of thing, I just need it for the file. JESSEP For the file. KAFFEE Yeah. JESSEP (pause) Of course you can have a copy of the transfer order. For the file. I'm here to help anyway I can. KAFFEE Thank you. JESSEP You believe that, don't you? Danny? That I'm here to help anyway I can? KAFFEE Of course. JESSEP The corporal'll run you by Ordinance on your way out to the airstrip. You can have all the transfer orders you want. KAFFEE (to JO and SAM) Let's go. The LAWYERS start to leave. JESSEP But you have to ask me nicely. KAFFEE stops. Turns around. Sam and JO stop and turn. KAFFEE I beg your pardon? JESSEP You have to ask me nicely. You see, Danny, I can deal with the bullets and the bombs and the blood. I can deal with the heat and the stress and the fear. I don't want money and I don't want medals. What I want is for you to stand there in that faggoty white uniform, and with your Harvard mouth, extend me some fuckin' courtesy. You gotta ask me nicely. KAFFEE and JESSEP are frozen. Everyone'staring at Kaffee; The OFFICERS at their tables... KENDRICK... SAM... MARKINSON... JO... KAFFEE makes his decision. KAFFEE Colonel Jessep... if it's not too much trouble, I'd like a copy of the transfer order. Sir. JESSEP smiles. JESSEP No problem. HOLD for a moment. JO's very disappointed. JESSEP stands there and watches the LAWYERS as they turn and leave the Officer's Club. JESSEP (continuing) I hate casualties, Matthew. There are casualties even in victory. A marine smothers a grenade and saves his platoon, that marine's a hero. The foundation of the unit, the fabric of this base, the spirit of the Corps, they are things worth fighting for. MARKINSON looks at the ground. JESSEP (continuing) Dawson and Downey, they don't know it, but they're smothering a grenade. MARKINSON looks up as we CUT TO: EXT. ANDREWS AIRFORCE BASE - DUSK As a plane touches down on the runway. It's dusk in Washington and CUT TO: EXT. KAFFEE'S APARTMENT - DAY A little one-bedroom. Just the essential furniture, barely even that. KAFFEE's sitting and watching a baseball came on t.v. He's holding a copy of The Baseball Encyclopedia, normally his favorite reading material, but right now he's having trouble keeping his mind in it. He's holding a baseball bat and fiddling with it. The remnants of a pizza and Yoo-Hoo dinner sit next to him. His white uniform in a pile in the corner. There's a BUZZ at the door. KAFFEE's not expecting anyone. He goes to the door. KAFFEE Who is it? JO (O.S.) It's me. KAFFEE opens the door and JO walks in. KAFFEE I've really missed you, Jo. I was just saying to myself, "It's been almost three hours since I last saw -- " JO Markinson resigned his commission. KAFFEE (pause) When? JO This afternoon. Sometime after we left. KAFFEE I'll talk to him in the morning. JO I already tried, I can't find him. KAFFEE You tried? Joanne, you're coming dangerously close to the textbook definition of interfering with a government investigation. JO hands KAFFEE the file she's been holding. JO I'm Louden Downey's attorney. KAFFEE's stunned. He opens the file and begins to read. JO (continuing) Aunt Ginny. She said she feels like she's known me for years. I suggested that she might feel more comfortable if I were directly involved with the case. She had Louden sign the papers about an hour ago. KAFFEE looks up. Still too stunned to say anything. Then finally... KAFFEE I suppose it's way too much to hope that you're just making this up to bother me. JO Don't worry, I'm not gonna make a motion for separation, you're still lead counsel. KAFFEE hands her back the file. KAFFEE Splendid. JO I think Kendrick ordered the Code Red. (beat) So do you. CUT TO: INT. A HOLDING ROOM IN THE BRIG - NIGHT DAWSON and DOWNEY come to attention as KAFFEE and JO are led in. DAWSON Officer on deck, ten hut. KAFFEE starts in immediately. KAFFEE Did Kendrick order the code red? DAWSON Sir? KAFFEE Don't say sir like I just asked you if you cleaned the latrine. You heard what I said. Did Lt. Kendrick order you guys to give Santiago a code red? DAWSON Yes sir. KAFFEE (to Downey) Did he? DOWNEY Yes sir. KAFFEE You mind telling me why the hell you never mentioned this before? DAWSON You didn't ask us, sir. KAFFEE Cutie-pie shit's not gonna win you a place in my heart, corporal, I get paid no matter how much time you spend in jail. DAWSON Yes

prophesy

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

was damn funny. Jo moves close to KAFFEE to say this with a degree of confidentiality. JO I do know you. Daniel AlliStair Kaffee, born June 8th, 1964 at Boston Mercy Hospital. Your father's Lionel Kaffee, former Navy Judge Advocate and Attorney General, of the United States, died 1985. You went to Harvard Law on a Navy scholarship, probably because that's what your father wanted you to do, and now you're just treading water for the three years you've gotta serve in the JAG Corps, just kinda layin' low til you can get out and get a real job. And if that's the situation, that's fine, I won't tell anyone. But my feeling is that if this case is handled in the same fast-food, slick-ass, Persian Bazaar manner with which you seem to handle everything else, something's gonna get missed. And I wouldn't be doing my job if I allowed Dawson and Downey to spend any more time in prison than absolutely necessary, because their attorney had pre- determined the path of least resistance. KAFFEE can't help but be impressed by that speech. KAFFEE Wow. (beat) I'm sexually aroused, Commander. JO I don't think your clients murdered anybody. KAFFEE What are you basing this on? JO There was no intent. KAFFEE The doctor's report says that Santiago died of asphyxiation brought on by acute lactic acidosis, and that the nature of the acidosis strongly suggests poisoning. (beat) Now, I don't know what any of that means, but it sounds pretty bad. JO Santiago died at one a.m. At three the doctor was unable to determine the cause of death, but two hours later he said it was poison. KAFFEE Oh, now I see what you're saying. It had to be Professor Plum in the library with the candlestick. JO I'm gonna speak to your supervisor. KAFFEE Okay. You go straight up Pennsylvania Avenue. It's a big white house with pillars in front. JO Thank you. KAFFEE I don't think you'll have much luck, though. I was assigned by Division, remember? Somebody over there thinks I'm a good lawyer. So while I appreciate your interest and admire your enthusiasm, I think I can pretty much handle things myself. JO Do you know what a code red is? KAFFEE doesn't, but he doesn't say anything. JO (continuing) What a pity. CUT TO: INT. THE BRIG - DAY And an M.P. is leading KAFFEE and SAM down to DAWSON and DOWNEY's cell. M.P. Officer on deck, ten-hut. DAWSON and DOWNEY come to attention. Through the following, the M.P. will unlock the call door and let the lawyers in. DAWSON Sir, Lance Corporal Harold W. Dawson, sir. Rifle Security Company Windward, Second Platoon, Delta. KAFFEE Someone hasn't been working and playing well with others, Harold. DAWSON Sir, yes sir! DOWNEY Sir, PFC Louden Downey. KAFFEE I'm Daniel Kaffee, this is Sam Weinerg, you can sitdown. DAWSON and DOWNEY aren't too comfortable sitting in the presence of officers, but they do as they're told. KAFFEE's pulled out some documents, SAM's sitting on one of the cots taking notes. KAFFEE (continuing; to DAWSON) Is this your signature? DAWSON Yes sir. KAFFEE You don't have to call me sir. (to DOWNEY) Is this your signature? DOWNEY Sir, yes sir. KAFFEE And you certainly don't have to do it twice in one sentence. Harold, what's a Code Red? DAWSON Sir, a Code Red is a disciplinary engagement. KAFFEE What does that mean, exactly? DAWSON Sir, a marine falls out of line, it's up to the men in his unit to get him back on track. KAFFEE What's a garden variety Code Red? DAWSON Sir? KAFFEE Harold, you say sir and I turn around and look for my father. Danny, Daniel, Kaffee. Garden variety; typical. What's a basic Code Red? DAWSON Sir, a marine has refused to bathe on a regular basis. The men in his squad would give him a G.I. shower. KAFFEE What's that? DAWSON Scrub brushes, brillo pads, steel wool... SAM Beautiful. KAFFEE Was the attack on Santiago a Code Red? DAWSON Yes sir. KAFFEE (to DOWNEY) Do you ever talk? DAWSON Sir, Private Downey will answer any direct questions you ask him. KAFFEE Swell. Private Downey, the rag you stuffed in Santiago's mouth, was there poison on it? DOWNEY No sir. KAFFEE Silver polish, turpentine, anti- freeze... DOWNEY No sir. We were gonna shave his head, sir. KAFFEE When all of a sudden...? DOWNEY We saw blood drippinq out of his mouth. Then we pulled the tape off, and there was blood all down his face, sir. That's when Corporal Dawson called the ambulance. KAFFEE tries not to make too big a deal out of this last piece of news. KAFFEE (to DAWSON) Did anyone see you call the ambulance? DAWSON No sir. KAFFEE Were you there when the ambulance got there? DAWSON Yes sir, that's when we were taken under arrest. KAFFEE kinda strolls to the corner of the cell to think for a moment. SAM (to DAWSON) On the night of August 2nd, did you fire a shot across the fenceline into Cuba? DAWSON Yes sir. SAM Why? DAWSON My mirror engaged, sir. KAFFEE (to SAM) His mirror engaged? SAM For each American sentry post there's a Cuban counterpart. They're called mirrors. The corporal's claiming that his mirror was about to fire at him. KAFFEE Santiago's letter to the NIS said you fired illegally. He's saying that the guy, the mirror, he never made a move. DAWSON says nothing. KAFFEE (continuing) Oh, Harold? SAM is staring at DAWSON. KAFFEE (continuing) You see what I'm getting at? If Santiago didn't have anything on you, then why did you give him a Code Red? DAWSON Because he broke the chain of command, sir. KAFFEE He what? DAWSON He went outside his unit, sir. If he had a problem, he should've spoken to me, sir. Then his Sergeant, then Company Commander, then -- KAFFEE Yeah, yeah, alright. Harold, did you assault Santiago with the intent of killing him? DAWSON No sir. KAFFEE What was your intent? DAWSON To train him, sir. KAFFEE Train him to do what? DAWSON Train him to think of his unit before himself. To respect the code. SAM What's the code? DAWSON Unit Corps God Country. SAM I beg your pardon? DAWSON Unit Corps God Country, sir. KAFFEE The Goverrment of the United States wants to charge you two with murder. You want me to go to the prosecutor with unit, corps, god, country? DAWSON stares at KAFFEE. DAWSON That's our code, sir. KAFFEE takes a long moment. He picks up his briefcase and he and SAM move to the door. KAFFEE We'll be back. You guys need anything? Books paper, cigarettes, a ham sandwich? DAWSON Sir. No thank you. Sir. KAFFEE smiles at DAWSON. KAFFEE Harold, I think there's a concept you better start warming up to. DAWSON Sir? KAFFEE I'm the only friend you've got. And as KAFFEE and SAM walk out the open cell door, DAWSON and DOWNEY come to attention and snap a salute. They hold the salute until KAFFEE and SAM are well out of sight, and we CUT TO: INT. KAFFEE'S OFFICE - DAY He's packing up stuff into his briefcase at the end of the work day. Lt. JACK ROSS, a marine lawyer maybe two years older than Kaffee, opens the door and walks in.. ROSS Dan Kaffee. KAFFEE Sailin' Jack Ross. ROSS Welcome to the big time. KAFFEE You think so? ROSS I hope for Dawson and Downey's sake you practice law better than you play softball. KAFFEE Unfortunately for Dawson and Downey, I don't do anything better than I play softball. What are we lookin' at? ROSS They plead guilty to manslaughter, I'll drop the conspiracy and the conduct unbecoming. 20 years, they'll be home in half that time. KAFFEE I want twelve. ROSS Can't do it. KAFFEE They called the ambulance, Jack. ROSS I don't care if they called the Avon Lady, they killed a marine. KAFFEE The rag was tested for poison. The autopsy, lab report, even the initial E.R. and C.O.D. reports. They all say the same thing: Maybe, maybe not. ROSS The Chief of Internal Medicine at the Guantanamo Bay Naval hospital says he's sure. KAFFEE What do you know about Code Reds? ROSS smiles and shakes his head. ROSS Oh man. He closes the office door. ROSS (continuing) Are we off the record? KAFFEE You tell me. ROSS (pause) I'm gonna give you the twelve years, but before you go getting yourself into trouble tomorrow, you should know this: The platoon commander Lt. Jonathan Kendrick, had a meeting with the men. And he specifically told them not to touch Santiago. KAFFEE holds for a moment. Dawson and Downey neglected to mention this... He packs up his briefcase and cleats. KAFFEE I'll talk to you when I get back. ROSS Hey, we got a little four-on-four going tomorrow night. When does your plane get in? CUT TO: EXT. THE PARKING LOT - DUSK It's dusk and people on the base are going home from work. We can see the flag being lowered in the background. KAFFEE's walking toward his car. JO intercepts him and starts walking along with him. JO Hi there. KAFFEE Any luck getting me replaced? JO Is there anyone in this command that you don't either drink or play softball with? KAFFEE Commander -- JO Listen, I came to make peace. We started off on the wrong foot. What do you say? Friends? KAFFEE Look, I don't -- JO By the way, I brought Downey some comic books he was asking for. The kid, Kaffee, I swear, he doesn't know where he is, he doesn't even know why he's been arrested. KAFFEE Commander -- JO You can call me Joanne. KAFFEE Joanne -- JO or Jo. KAFFEE Jo? JO Yes. KAFFEE Jo, if you ever speak to a client of mine again without my permission, I'll have you disbarred. Friends? JO I had authorization. KAFFEE From where? JO Downey's closest living relative, Ginny Miller, his aunt on his mother's side. KAFFEE You got authorization from Aunt Ginny? JO I gave her a call like you asked. Very nice woman, we talked for about an hour. KAFFEE You got authorization from Aunt Ginny. JO Perfectly within my province. KAFFEE Does Aunt Ginny have a barn? We can hold the trial there. I can sew the costumes, and maybe his Uncle Goober can be the judge. Jo steps aside and lets KAFFEE got into his car. JO I'm going to Cuba with you tomorrow. KAFFEE And the hits just keep on comin'. HOLD on KAFFEE and Jo. JO smiles. CUT TO: EXT. SIDEWALK NEWSSTAND - DUSK KAFFEE IN HIS CAR He's driving down a Washington street and pulls over at a sidewalk newsstand. He gets out of his car, leaving the lights flashing, and runs up to the newsstand. As he plunks his 35 cents down and picks up a newspaper, he engages in his daily ritual with LUTHER, the newsstand operator. KAFFEE How's it goin', Luther? LUTHER Another day, another dollar, captain. KAFFEE You gotta play 'em as they lay, Luther. LUTHER What comes around, goes around, you know what I'm sayin'. KAFFEE If you can't beat 'em, join 'em. LUTHER Hey, if you've got your health, you got everything. KAFFEE Love makes the world go round. I'll see you tomorrow, Luther. And we CUT TO: INT. SAM'S LIVING ROOM - NIGHT A baby sleeping in a crib pull rack to reveal SAM is standing over the crib. KAFFEE's sitting on a beer. SAM When Nancy gets back, you're my witness. The baby spoke. My daughter said a word. KAFFEE Your daughter made a sound, Sam, I'm not sure it was a word. SAM Oh come on, it was a word. KAFFEE Okay. SAM You heard her. The girl sat here, pointed, and said "Pa". She did. She said "Pa". KAFFEE She was pointing at a doorknob. SAM That's right. Pointing, as if to say, "Pa, look, a doorknob". SAM joins KAFFEE in the living room. KAFFEE Jack Ross came to see me today. He offered me twelve years. SAM That's what you wanted. KAFFEE I know, and I'll... I guess, I mean -- (beat) I'll take it. SAM So? KAFFEE It took albout 45 seconds. He barely put up a fight. SAM (beat) Danny, take the twelve years, it's a gift. KAFFEE finishes off his beer, and stands. KAFFEE You don't believe their story, do you? You think they ought to go to jail for the rest of their lives. SAM I believe every word they said. And I think they ought to go to jail for the rest of their lives. KAFFEE nods and puts down the empty beer bottle. KAFFEE I'll see you tomorrow. Sam opens the front door for him and they stand out on the stoop for a moment. SAM Remember to wear your whites, it's hot down there. KAFFEE I don't like the whites. SAM Nobody likes the whites, but we're going to Cuba in August. You got Dramamine? KAFFEE Dramamine keeps you cool? SAM Dramamine keeps you from throwing up, you get sick when you fly. KAFFEE I get sick when I fly because I'm afraid of crashing into a large mountain, I don't think Dramamine'll help. SAM I've got some oregano, I hear that works pretty good. KAFFEE Yeah, right. KAFFEE starts toward his car, then turns around. KAFFEE (continuing) You know, Ross said the strangest thing to me right before I left. He said the platoon commander Lieutenant Jonathan Kendrick had a meeting with the men and specifically told them not to touch Santiago. SAM So? KAFFEE I never mentioned Kendrick. I don't even know who he is. (beat) What the hell. (beat) I'll see you tomorrow. We hold for a moment on KAFFEE as he walks to his car, then CUT TO: EXT. THE AIRSTRIP AT GUANTANAMO BAY - DAY The whole place, in stark contrast to the Washington Navy Yard, is ready to go to war. Fighter jets line the tarmac. Ground crews re-fuel planes. Hurried activity. A 36 seat Airforce Jet rolls to a stop on the tarmac and a stair unit is brought up. HOWARD, a marine corporal, is waiting by the stairway as the passengers begin to got off. Mostly MARINES, a few SAILORS, a couple of CIVILIANS, and KAFFEE, JO and SAM. KAFFEE and SAM are wearing their summer whites, JO is in khakis. KAFFEE and SAM stare out at what they see: They're not in Kansas anymore. HOWARD shouts over the noise from the planes. HOWARD Lieutenants Kaffee and Weinberg? KAFFEE (shouting) Yeah. JO Commander Galloway. HOWARD I'm Corporal Howard, ma'am, I'm to escort you to the Windward side of the base. JO Thank you. HOWARD I've got some camouflage jackets in the back of the jeep, sirs, I'll have to ask you both to put them on. KAFFEE Camouflage jackets? HOWARD Regulations, sir. We'll be riding pretty close to the fenceline. The Cubans see an officer wearing white, they think it's someone they might wanna take a shot at. KAFFEE turns and glares at SAM. KAFFEE Good call, Sam. CUT TO: EXT. CUBAN ROAD - THE JEEP - DAY Tearing along down the road, and now we see a beautiful expanse of water, maybe 1000 yards across. It's a section of Guantanamo Bay. HOWARD (shouting) We'll just hop on the ferry and be over there in no time. KAFFEE (shouting) Whoa! Hold it! We gotta take a boat?! HOWARD Yes sir, to get to the other side of the bay. KAFFEE Nobody said anything about a boat. HOWARD (shouting) Is there a problem, sir? KAFFEE (shouting) No. No problem. I'm just not that crazy about boats, that's all. JO (shouting) Jesus Christ, Kaffee, you're in the Navy for cryin' out loud! KAFFEE (shouting) Nobody likes her very much. HOWARD (shouting) Yes sir. The jeep drives on and we CUT TO: JESSEP, MARKINSON and KENDRICK are standing as the LAWYERS are led in. JESSEP Nathan Jessep, come on in and siddown. KAFFEE Thank you. I'm Daniel Kaffee, I'm the attorney for Dawson and Downey. This is Joanne Galloway, she's observing and evaluating -- JO (shaking hands) Colonel. JESSEP Pleased to meet you, Commander. KAFFEE Sam Weinberg. He has no responsibility here whatsoever. JESSEP I've asked Captain Markinson and Lt. Kendrick to join us. MARKINSON Lt. Kaffee, I had the pleasure of seeing your father once. I was a teenager and he spoke at my high school. KAFFEE smiles and nods. JESSEP Lionel Kaffee? KAFFEE Yes sir. JESSEP Well what do you know. Son, this man's dad once made a lot of enemies down in your neck of the woods. Jefferson vs. Madison County School District. The folks down there said a little black girl couldn't go to an all white school, Lionel Kaffee said we'll just see about that. How the hell is your dad? KAFFEE He passed away seven years ago, colonel. JESSEP (pause) Well... don't I feel like the fuckin, asshole. KAFFEE Not at all, sir. JESSEP Well, what can we do for you, Danny. KAFFEE Not much at all, sir, I'm afraid. This is really a formality more than anything else. The JAG Corps insists that I interview all the relevant witnesses. JO The JAG Corps can be demanding that way. JESSEP smiles. JESSEP Jonanthan'll take you out and show you what you wanna see, then we can all hook up for lunch, how does that sound? KAFFEE Fine, sir. CUT TO: EXT. THE FENCELINE - DAY A SQUAD OF MARINES jogs by as a jeep carrying KENDRICK and the three LAWYERS cruises down the road. We FOLLOW the jeep. KAFFEE I understand you had a meeting with your men that afternoon. KENDRICK Yes. KAFFEE What'd you guys talk about? KENDRICK I told the men that there was an informer among us. And that despite any desire they might have to seek retribution, Private Santiago was not to be harmed in any way. KAFFEE What time was that meeting? KENDRICK Sixteen-hundred. KAFFEE turns around and looks at SAM. SAM (leaning forward) Four o'clock. CUT TO: INT. THE BARRACKS CORRIDOR - DAY KENDRICK leads the LAWYERS down the corridor to Santiago's room. Two strips of tape which warn DO NOT ENTER - AT ORDER OF THE MILITARY POLICE are crisscrossed over the closed door. They open the door and step under the tape and walk into INT. SANTIAGO'S ROOM - DAY The room is exactly an it was left that night. The un-made bed, the chair knocked over... The LAWYERS look around for a moment. The room is sparse. Kaffee goes to the closet and opens it: A row of uniforms hanging neatly. He thumbs through then for a second, but there's nothing there. He opens the footlocker: Socks, underwear... all folded to marine corp precision... A shaving kit, a couple of photographs, a pad of writing paper and some envelopes... Kaffee closes the footlocker. KAFFEE Sam, somebody should see about getting this stuff to his parents. We don't need it anymore. KENDRICK Actually, the uniforms belong to the marine corps. The LAWYERS take a moment. KAFFEE Lt. Kendrick -- can I call you Jon? KENDRICK No, you may not. KAFFEE (beat) Have I done something to offend you? KENDRICK No, I like all you Navy boys. Every time we've gotta go someplace and fight, you fellas always give us a ride. JO Lt. Kendrick, do you think Santiago was murdered? KENDRICK Commander, I believe in God, and in his son Jesus Christ, and because I do, I can say this: Private Santiago is dead and that's a tragedy. But he's dead because he had no code. He's dead because he had no honor. And God was watching. SAM turns to KAFFEE. SAM How do you feel about that theory? KAFFEE (beat) Sounds good. Let's move on. SAM and KENDRICK walk out the door. JO stops KAFFEE. JO You planning on doing any investigating or are you just gonna take the guided tour? KAFFEE (beat) I'm pacing myself. CUT TO: INT. THE OFFICERS CLUB - DAY JESSEP, MARKINSON, KENDRICK and the LAWYERS are seated at a table in the corner. Stewards clear the lunch dishes and pour coffee. Jessep is finishing a story. JESSEP ...And they spent the next three hours running around, looking for Americans to surrender to. JESSEP laughs. KENDRICK joins him. SAM and KAFFEE force a laugh. MARKINSON forces a smile. JO remains silent. JESSEP (continuing; to the STEWARDS) That was delicious, men, thank you. STEWARD Our pleasure, sir. KAFFEE Colonel just need to ask you a couple of questions about August 6th. JESSEP Shoot. KAFFEE On the morning of the sixth, you were contacted by an NIS angent who said that Santiago had tipped him off to an illegal fenceline shooting. JESSEP Yes. KAFFEE Santiago was gonna reveal the person's name in exchange for a transfer. An I getting this right? JESSEP Yes. KAFFEE If you feel there are any details that I'm missing, you should free to speak up. JESSEP's not quite sure what to say to this Navy Lawyer Lieutenant-Smartass guy who just gave him permission to speak freely on his own base. JESSEP Thank you. KAFFEE Now it was at this point that you called Captain Markinson and Lt. Kendrick into your office? JESSEP Yes. KAFFEE And what happened then? JESSEP We agreed that for his own safety, Santiago should be transferred off the base. Here's something else KAFFEE didn't know. Neither did Jo. SAM jots something down on a small notepad. MARKINSON doesn't flinch. KAFFEE Santiago was set to be transferred? JESSEP On the first available flight to the states. Six the next morning. Three hours too late as it turned out. KAFFEE nods. KAFFEE Yeah. There's silence for a moment. KAFFEE takes a sip of his coffee. Then drains the cup and puts it down. KAFFEE (continuing) Alright, that's all I have. Thanks very much for your time. KENDRICK The corporal's got the jeep outside, he'll take you back to the airstrip. KAFFEE (standing) Thank you. JO Wait a minute, I've got some questions. KAFFEE No you don't. JO Yes I do. KAFFEE No you don't. JO Colonel, on the morning that Santiago died, did you meet with Doctor Stone between three and five? KAFFEE Jo -- JESSEP Of course I met with the doctor. One of my men was dead. KAFFEE (to JO) See? The man was dead. Let's go. JO (to JESSEP) I was wondering if you've ever heard the term Code Red. KAFFEE Jo -- JESSEP I've heard the term, yes. JO Colonel, this past February, you received a cautionary memo from the Naval Investigative Service, warning that the practice of enlisted men disciplining their own wasn't to be condoned by officers. JESSEP I submit to you that whoever wrote that memo has never served on the working end of a Soviet-made Cuban Ml-Al6 Assault Rifle. However, the directive having come from the NIS, I gave it its due attention. What's your point, Jo? KAFFEE She has no point. She often has no point. It's part of her charm. We're outta here. Thank you. JO My point is that I think code reds still go on down here. Do Code Reds still happen on this base, colonel? KAFFEE Jo, the colonel doesn't need to answer that. JO Yes he does. KAFFEE No, he really doesn't. JO Yeah, he really does. Colonel? JESSEP You know it just hit me. She outranks you, Danny. KAFFEE Yes sir. JESSEP I want to tell you something Danny and listen up 'cause I mean this: You're the luckiest man in the world. There is, believe me gentlemen, nothing sexier on earth than a woman you have to salute in the morning. Promote 'em all I say. JO's not upset. JO's not mad. But she's gonna ask her question 'til she gets an answer. JO Colonel, the practice of code Reds is still condoned by officers on this base, isn't it? JESSEP You see my problem is, of course, that I'm a Colonel. I'll just have to keep taking cold showers 'til they elect some gal President. JO I need an answer to my question, sir. JESSEP Take caution in your tone, Commander. I'm a fair guy, but this fuckin' heat's making me absolutely crazy. You want to know about code reds? On the record I tell you that I discourage the practice in accordance with the NIS directive. Off the record I tell you that it's an invaluable part of close infantry training, and if it happens to go on without my knowledge, so be it. I run my base how I run my base. You want to investigate me, roll the dice and take your chances. I eat breakfast 80 yards away from 4000 Cubans who are trained to kill me. So don't for one second think you're gonna come down here, flash a badge, and make me nervous. A moment of tense silence before -- KAFFEE Let's go. Colonel, I'll just need a copy of Santiago's transfer order. JESSEP What's that? KAFFEE Santiago's transfer order. You guys have paper work on that kind of thing, I just need it for the file. JESSEP For the file. KAFFEE Yeah. JESSEP (pause) Of course you can have a copy of the transfer order. For the file. I'm here to help anyway I can. KAFFEE Thank you. JESSEP You believe that, don't you? Danny? That I'm here to help anyway I can? KAFFEE Of course. JESSEP The corporal'll run you by Ordinance on your way out to the airstrip. You can have all the transfer orders you want. KAFFEE (to JO and SAM) Let's go. The LAWYERS start to leave. JESSEP But you have to ask me nicely. KAFFEE stops. Turns around. Sam and JO stop and turn. KAFFEE I beg your pardon? JESSEP You have to ask me nicely. You see, Danny, I can deal with the bullets and the bombs and the blood. I can deal with the heat and the stress and the fear. I don't want money and I don't want medals. What I want is for you to stand there in that faggoty white uniform, and with your Harvard mouth, extend me some fuckin' courtesy. You gotta ask me nicely. KAFFEE and JESSEP are frozen. Everyone'staring at Kaffee; The OFFICERS at their tables... KENDRICK... SAM... MARKINSON... JO... KAFFEE makes his decision. KAFFEE Colonel Jessep... if it's not too much trouble, I'd like a copy of the transfer order. Sir. JESSEP smiles. JESSEP No problem. HOLD for a moment. JO's very disappointed. JESSEP stands there and watches the LAWYERS as they turn and leave the Officer's Club. JESSEP (continuing) I hate casualties, Matthew. There are casualties even in victory. A marine smothers a grenade and saves his platoon, that marine's a hero. The foundation of the unit, the fabric of this base, the spirit of the Corps, they are things worth fighting for. MARKINSON looks at the ground. JESSEP (continuing) Dawson and Downey, they don't know it, but they're smothering a grenade. MARKINSON looks up as we CUT TO: EXT. ANDREWS AIRFORCE BASE - DUSK As a plane touches down on the runway. It's dusk in Washington and CUT TO: EXT. KAFFEE'S APARTMENT - DAY A little one-bedroom. Just the essential furniture, barely even that. KAFFEE's sitting and watching a baseball came on t.v. He's holding a copy of The Baseball Encyclopedia, normally his favorite reading material, but right now he's having trouble keeping his mind in it. He's holding a baseball bat and fiddling with it. The remnants of a pizza and Yoo-Hoo dinner sit next to him. His white uniform in a pile in the corner. There's a BUZZ at the door. KAFFEE's not expecting anyone. He goes to the door. KAFFEE Who is it? JO (O.S.) It's me. KAFFEE opens the door and JO walks in. KAFFEE I've really missed you, Jo. I was just saying to myself, "It's been almost three hours since I last saw -- " JO Markinson resigned his commission. KAFFEE (pause) When? JO This afternoon. Sometime after we left. KAFFEE I'll talk to him in the morning. JO I already tried, I can't find him. KAFFEE You tried? Joanne, you're coming dangerously close to the textbook definition of interfering with a government investigation. JO hands KAFFEE the file she's been holding. JO I'm Louden Downey's attorney. KAFFEE's stunned. He opens the file and begins to read. JO (continuing) Aunt Ginny. She said she feels like she's known me for years. I suggested that she might feel more comfortable if I were directly involved with the case. She had Louden sign the papers about an hour ago. KAFFEE looks up. Still too stunned to say anything. Then finally... KAFFEE I suppose it's way too much to hope that you're just making this up to bother me. JO Don't worry, I'm not gonna make a motion for separation, you're still lead counsel. KAFFEE hands her back the file. KAFFEE Splendid. JO I think Kendrick ordered the Code Red. (beat) So do you. CUT TO: INT. A HOLDING ROOM IN THE BRIG - NIGHT DAWSON and DOWNEY come to attention as KAFFEE and JO are led in. DAWSON Officer on deck, ten hut. KAFFEE starts in immediately. KAFFEE Did Kendrick order the code red? DAWSON Sir? KAFFEE Don't say sir like I just asked you if you cleaned the latrine. You heard what I said. Did Lt. Kendrick order you guys to give Santiago a code red? DAWSON Yes sir. KAFFEE (to Downey) Did he? DOWNEY Yes sir. KAFFEE You mind telling me why the hell you never mentioned this before? DAWSON You didn't ask us, sir. KAFFEE Cutie-pie shit's not gonna win you a place in my heart, corporal, I get paid no matter how much time you spend in jail. DAWSON Yes

jo

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

was damn funny. Jo moves close to KAFFEE to say this with a degree of confidentiality. JO I do know you. Daniel AlliStair Kaffee, born June 8th, 1964 at Boston Mercy Hospital. Your father's Lionel Kaffee, former Navy Judge Advocate and Attorney General, of the United States, died 1985. You went to Harvard Law on a Navy scholarship, probably because that's what your father wanted you to do, and now you're just treading water for the three years you've gotta serve in the JAG Corps, just kinda layin' low til you can get out and get a real job. And if that's the situation, that's fine, I won't tell anyone. But my feeling is that if this case is handled in the same fast-food, slick-ass, Persian Bazaar manner with which you seem to handle everything else, something's gonna get missed. And I wouldn't be doing my job if I allowed Dawson and Downey to spend any more time in prison than absolutely necessary, because their attorney had pre- determined the path of least resistance. KAFFEE can't help but be impressed by that speech. KAFFEE Wow. (beat) I'm sexually aroused, Commander. JO I don't think your clients murdered anybody. KAFFEE What are you basing this on? JO There was no intent. KAFFEE The doctor's report says that Santiago died of asphyxiation brought on by acute lactic acidosis, and that the nature of the acidosis strongly suggests poisoning. (beat) Now, I don't know what any of that means, but it sounds pretty bad. JO Santiago died at one a.m. At three the doctor was unable to determine the cause of death, but two hours later he said it was poison. KAFFEE Oh, now I see what you're saying. It had to be Professor Plum in the library with the candlestick. JO I'm gonna speak to your supervisor. KAFFEE Okay. You go straight up Pennsylvania Avenue. It's a big white house with pillars in front. JO Thank you. KAFFEE I don't think you'll have much luck, though. I was assigned by Division, remember? Somebody over there thinks I'm a good lawyer. So while I appreciate your interest and admire your enthusiasm, I think I can pretty much handle things myself. JO Do you know what a code red is? KAFFEE doesn't, but he doesn't say anything. JO (continuing) What a pity. CUT TO: INT. THE BRIG - DAY And an M.P. is leading KAFFEE and SAM down to DAWSON and DOWNEY's cell. M.P. Officer on deck, ten-hut. DAWSON and DOWNEY come to attention. Through the following, the M.P. will unlock the call door and let the lawyers in. DAWSON Sir, Lance Corporal Harold W. Dawson, sir. Rifle Security Company Windward, Second Platoon, Delta. KAFFEE Someone hasn't been working and playing well with others, Harold. DAWSON Sir, yes sir! DOWNEY Sir, PFC Louden Downey. KAFFEE I'm Daniel Kaffee, this is Sam Weinerg, you can sitdown. DAWSON and DOWNEY aren't too comfortable sitting in the presence of officers, but they do as they're told. KAFFEE's pulled out some documents, SAM's sitting on one of the cots taking notes. KAFFEE (continuing; to DAWSON) Is this your signature? DAWSON Yes sir. KAFFEE You don't have to call me sir. (to DOWNEY) Is this your signature? DOWNEY Sir, yes sir. KAFFEE And you certainly don't have to do it twice in one sentence. Harold, what's a Code Red? DAWSON Sir, a Code Red is a disciplinary engagement. KAFFEE What does that mean, exactly? DAWSON Sir, a marine falls out of line, it's up to the men in his unit to get him back on track. KAFFEE What's a garden variety Code Red? DAWSON Sir? KAFFEE Harold, you say sir and I turn around and look for my father. Danny, Daniel, Kaffee. Garden variety; typical. What's a basic Code Red? DAWSON Sir, a marine has refused to bathe on a regular basis. The men in his squad would give him a G.I. shower. KAFFEE What's that? DAWSON Scrub brushes, brillo pads, steel wool... SAM Beautiful. KAFFEE Was the attack on Santiago a Code Red? DAWSON Yes sir. KAFFEE (to DOWNEY) Do you ever talk? DAWSON Sir, Private Downey will answer any direct questions you ask him. KAFFEE Swell. Private Downey, the rag you stuffed in Santiago's mouth, was there poison on it? DOWNEY No sir. KAFFEE Silver polish, turpentine, anti- freeze... DOWNEY No sir. We were gonna shave his head, sir. KAFFEE When all of a sudden...? DOWNEY We saw blood drippinq out of his mouth. Then we pulled the tape off, and there was blood all down his face, sir. That's when Corporal Dawson called the ambulance. KAFFEE tries not to make too big a deal out of this last piece of news. KAFFEE (to DAWSON) Did anyone see you call the ambulance? DAWSON No sir. KAFFEE Were you there when the ambulance got there? DAWSON Yes sir, that's when we were taken under arrest. KAFFEE kinda strolls to the corner of the cell to think for a moment. SAM (to DAWSON) On the night of August 2nd, did you fire a shot across the fenceline into Cuba? DAWSON Yes sir. SAM Why? DAWSON My mirror engaged, sir. KAFFEE (to SAM) His mirror engaged? SAM For each American sentry post there's a Cuban counterpart. They're called mirrors. The corporal's claiming that his mirror was about to fire at him. KAFFEE Santiago's letter to the NIS said you fired illegally. He's saying that the guy, the mirror, he never made a move. DAWSON says nothing. KAFFEE (continuing) Oh, Harold? SAM is staring at DAWSON. KAFFEE (continuing) You see what I'm getting at? If Santiago didn't have anything on you, then why did you give him a Code Red? DAWSON Because he broke the chain of command, sir. KAFFEE He what? DAWSON He went outside his unit, sir. If he had a problem, he should've spoken to me, sir. Then his Sergeant, then Company Commander, then -- KAFFEE Yeah, yeah, alright. Harold, did you assault Santiago with the intent of killing him? DAWSON No sir. KAFFEE What was your intent? DAWSON To train him, sir. KAFFEE Train him to do what? DAWSON Train him to think of his unit before himself. To respect the code. SAM What's the code? DAWSON Unit Corps God Country. SAM I beg your pardon? DAWSON Unit Corps God Country, sir. KAFFEE The Goverrment of the United States wants to charge you two with murder. You want me to go to the prosecutor with unit, corps, god, country? DAWSON stares at KAFFEE. DAWSON That's our code, sir. KAFFEE takes a long moment. He picks up his briefcase and he and SAM move to the door. KAFFEE We'll be back. You guys need anything? Books paper, cigarettes, a ham sandwich? DAWSON Sir. No thank you. Sir. KAFFEE smiles at DAWSON. KAFFEE Harold, I think there's a concept you better start warming up to. DAWSON Sir? KAFFEE I'm the only friend you've got. And as KAFFEE and SAM walk out the open cell door, DAWSON and DOWNEY come to attention and snap a salute. They hold the salute until KAFFEE and SAM are well out of sight, and we CUT TO: INT. KAFFEE'S OFFICE - DAY He's packing up stuff into his briefcase at the end of the work day. Lt. JACK ROSS, a marine lawyer maybe two years older than Kaffee, opens the door and walks in.. ROSS Dan Kaffee. KAFFEE Sailin' Jack Ross. ROSS Welcome to the big time. KAFFEE You think so? ROSS I hope for Dawson and Downey's sake you practice law better than you play softball. KAFFEE Unfortunately for Dawson and Downey, I don't do anything better than I play softball. What are we lookin' at? ROSS They plead guilty to manslaughter, I'll drop the conspiracy and the conduct unbecoming. 20 years, they'll be home in half that time. KAFFEE I want twelve. ROSS Can't do it. KAFFEE They called the ambulance, Jack. ROSS I don't care if they called the Avon Lady, they killed a marine. KAFFEE The rag was tested for poison. The autopsy, lab report, even the initial E.R. and C.O.D. reports. They all say the same thing: Maybe, maybe not. ROSS The Chief of Internal Medicine at the Guantanamo Bay Naval hospital says he's sure. KAFFEE What do you know about Code Reds? ROSS smiles and shakes his head. ROSS Oh man. He closes the office door. ROSS (continuing) Are we off the record? KAFFEE You tell me. ROSS (pause) I'm gonna give you the twelve years, but before you go getting yourself into trouble tomorrow, you should know this: The platoon commander Lt. Jonathan Kendrick, had a meeting with the men. And he specifically told them not to touch Santiago. KAFFEE holds for a moment. Dawson and Downey neglected to mention this... He packs up his briefcase and cleats. KAFFEE I'll talk to you when I get back. ROSS Hey, we got a little four-on-four going tomorrow night. When does your plane get in? CUT TO: EXT. THE PARKING LOT - DUSK It's dusk and people on the base are going home from work. We can see the flag being lowered in the background. KAFFEE's walking toward his car. JO intercepts him and starts walking along with him. JO Hi there. KAFFEE Any luck getting me replaced? JO Is there anyone in this command that you don't either drink or play softball with? KAFFEE Commander -- JO Listen, I came to make peace. We started off on the wrong foot. What do you say? Friends? KAFFEE Look, I don't -- JO By the way, I brought Downey some comic books he was asking for. The kid, Kaffee, I swear, he doesn't know where he is, he doesn't even know why he's been arrested. KAFFEE Commander -- JO You can call me Joanne. KAFFEE Joanne -- JO or Jo. KAFFEE Jo? JO Yes. KAFFEE Jo, if you ever speak to a client of mine again without my permission, I'll have you disbarred. Friends? JO I had authorization. KAFFEE From where? JO Downey's closest living relative, Ginny Miller, his aunt on his mother's side. KAFFEE You got authorization from Aunt Ginny? JO I gave her a call like you asked. Very nice woman, we talked for about an hour. KAFFEE You got authorization from Aunt Ginny. JO Perfectly within my province. KAFFEE Does Aunt Ginny have a barn? We can hold the trial there. I can sew the costumes, and maybe his Uncle Goober can be the judge. Jo steps aside and lets KAFFEE got into his car. JO I'm going to Cuba with you tomorrow. KAFFEE And the hits just keep on comin'. HOLD on KAFFEE and Jo. JO smiles. CUT TO: EXT. SIDEWALK NEWSSTAND - DUSK KAFFEE IN HIS CAR He's driving down a Washington street and pulls over at a sidewalk newsstand. He gets out of his car, leaving the lights flashing, and runs up to the newsstand. As he plunks his 35 cents down and picks up a newspaper, he engages in his daily ritual with LUTHER, the newsstand operator. KAFFEE How's it goin', Luther? LUTHER Another day, another dollar, captain. KAFFEE You gotta play 'em as they lay, Luther. LUTHER What comes around, goes around, you know what I'm sayin'. KAFFEE If you can't beat 'em, join 'em. LUTHER Hey, if you've got your health, you got everything. KAFFEE Love makes the world go round. I'll see you tomorrow, Luther. And we CUT TO: INT. SAM'S LIVING ROOM - NIGHT A baby sleeping in a crib pull rack to reveal SAM is standing over the crib. KAFFEE's sitting on a beer. SAM When Nancy gets back, you're my witness. The baby spoke. My daughter said a word. KAFFEE Your daughter made a sound, Sam, I'm not sure it was a word. SAM Oh come on, it was a word. KAFFEE Okay. SAM You heard her. The girl sat here, pointed, and said "Pa". She did. She said "Pa". KAFFEE She was pointing at a doorknob. SAM That's right. Pointing, as if to say, "Pa, look, a doorknob". SAM joins KAFFEE in the living room. KAFFEE Jack Ross came to see me today. He offered me twelve years. SAM That's what you wanted. KAFFEE I know, and I'll... I guess, I mean -- (beat) I'll take it. SAM So? KAFFEE It took albout 45 seconds. He barely put up a fight. SAM (beat) Danny, take the twelve years, it's a gift. KAFFEE finishes off his beer, and stands. KAFFEE You don't believe their story, do you? You think they ought to go to jail for the rest of their lives. SAM I believe every word they said. And I think they ought to go to jail for the rest of their lives. KAFFEE nods and puts down the empty beer bottle. KAFFEE I'll see you tomorrow. Sam opens the front door for him and they stand out on the stoop for a moment. SAM Remember to wear your whites, it's hot down there. KAFFEE I don't like the whites. SAM Nobody likes the whites, but we're going to Cuba in August. You got Dramamine? KAFFEE Dramamine keeps you cool? SAM Dramamine keeps you from throwing up, you get sick when you fly. KAFFEE I get sick when I fly because I'm afraid of crashing into a large mountain, I don't think Dramamine'll help. SAM I've got some oregano, I hear that works pretty good. KAFFEE Yeah, right. KAFFEE starts toward his car, then turns around. KAFFEE (continuing) You know, Ross said the strangest thing to me right before I left. He said the platoon commander Lieutenant Jonathan Kendrick had a meeting with the men and specifically told them not to touch Santiago. SAM So? KAFFEE I never mentioned Kendrick. I don't even know who he is. (beat) What the hell. (beat) I'll see you tomorrow. We hold for a moment on KAFFEE as he walks to his car, then CUT TO: EXT. THE AIRSTRIP AT GUANTANAMO BAY - DAY The whole place, in stark contrast to the Washington Navy Yard, is ready to go to war. Fighter jets line the tarmac. Ground crews re-fuel planes. Hurried activity. A 36 seat Airforce Jet rolls to a stop on the tarmac and a stair unit is brought up. HOWARD, a marine corporal, is waiting by the stairway as the passengers begin to got off. Mostly MARINES, a few SAILORS, a couple of CIVILIANS, and KAFFEE, JO and SAM. KAFFEE and SAM are wearing their summer whites, JO is in khakis. KAFFEE and SAM stare out at what they see: They're not in Kansas anymore. HOWARD shouts over the noise from the planes. HOWARD Lieutenants Kaffee and Weinberg? KAFFEE (shouting) Yeah. JO Commander Galloway. HOWARD I'm Corporal Howard, ma'am, I'm to escort you to the Windward side of the base. JO Thank you. HOWARD I've got some camouflage jackets in the back of the jeep, sirs, I'll have to ask you both to put them on. KAFFEE Camouflage jackets? HOWARD Regulations, sir. We'll be riding pretty close to the fenceline. The Cubans see an officer wearing white, they think it's someone they might wanna take a shot at. KAFFEE turns and glares at SAM. KAFFEE Good call, Sam. CUT TO: EXT. CUBAN ROAD - THE JEEP - DAY Tearing along down the road, and now we see a beautiful expanse of water, maybe 1000 yards across. It's a section of Guantanamo Bay. HOWARD (shouting) We'll just hop on the ferry and be over there in no time. KAFFEE (shouting) Whoa! Hold it! We gotta take a boat?! HOWARD Yes sir, to get to the other side of the bay. KAFFEE Nobody said anything about a boat. HOWARD (shouting) Is there a problem, sir? KAFFEE (shouting) No. No problem. I'm just not that crazy about boats, that's all. JO (shouting) Jesus Christ, Kaffee, you're in the Navy for cryin' out loud! KAFFEE (shouting) Nobody likes her very much. HOWARD (shouting) Yes sir. The jeep drives on and we CUT TO: JESSEP, MARKINSON and KENDRICK are standing as the LAWYERS are led in. JESSEP Nathan Jessep, come on in and siddown. KAFFEE Thank you. I'm Daniel Kaffee, I'm the attorney for Dawson and Downey. This is Joanne Galloway, she's observing and evaluating -- JO (shaking hands) Colonel. JESSEP Pleased to meet you, Commander. KAFFEE Sam Weinberg. He has no responsibility here whatsoever. JESSEP I've asked Captain Markinson and Lt. Kendrick to join us. MARKINSON Lt. Kaffee, I had the pleasure of seeing your father once. I was a teenager and he spoke at my high school. KAFFEE smiles and nods. JESSEP Lionel Kaffee? KAFFEE Yes sir. JESSEP Well what do you know. Son, this man's dad once made a lot of enemies down in your neck of the woods. Jefferson vs. Madison County School District. The folks down there said a little black girl couldn't go to an all white school, Lionel Kaffee said we'll just see about that. How the hell is your dad? KAFFEE He passed away seven years ago, colonel. JESSEP (pause) Well... don't I feel like the fuckin, asshole. KAFFEE Not at all, sir. JESSEP Well, what can we do for you, Danny. KAFFEE Not much at all, sir, I'm afraid. This is really a formality more than anything else. The JAG Corps insists that I interview all the relevant witnesses. JO The JAG Corps can be demanding that way. JESSEP smiles. JESSEP Jonanthan'll take you out and show you what you wanna see, then we can all hook up for lunch, how does that sound? KAFFEE Fine, sir. CUT TO: EXT. THE FENCELINE - DAY A SQUAD OF MARINES jogs by as a jeep carrying KENDRICK and the three LAWYERS cruises down the road. We FOLLOW the jeep. KAFFEE I understand you had a meeting with your men that afternoon. KENDRICK Yes. KAFFEE What'd you guys talk about? KENDRICK I told the men that there was an informer among us. And that despite any desire they might have to seek retribution, Private Santiago was not to be harmed in any way. KAFFEE What time was that meeting? KENDRICK Sixteen-hundred. KAFFEE turns around and looks at SAM. SAM (leaning forward) Four o'clock. CUT TO: INT. THE BARRACKS CORRIDOR - DAY KENDRICK leads the LAWYERS down the corridor to Santiago's room. Two strips of tape which warn DO NOT ENTER - AT ORDER OF THE MILITARY POLICE are crisscrossed over the closed door. They open the door and step under the tape and walk into INT. SANTIAGO'S ROOM - DAY The room is exactly an it was left that night. The un-made bed, the chair knocked over... The LAWYERS look around for a moment. The room is sparse. Kaffee goes to the closet and opens it: A row of uniforms hanging neatly. He thumbs through then for a second, but there's nothing there. He opens the footlocker: Socks, underwear... all folded to marine corp precision... A shaving kit, a couple of photographs, a pad of writing paper and some envelopes... Kaffee closes the footlocker. KAFFEE Sam, somebody should see about getting this stuff to his parents. We don't need it anymore. KENDRICK Actually, the uniforms belong to the marine corps. The LAWYERS take a moment. KAFFEE Lt. Kendrick -- can I call you Jon? KENDRICK No, you may not. KAFFEE (beat) Have I done something to offend you? KENDRICK No, I like all you Navy boys. Every time we've gotta go someplace and fight, you fellas always give us a ride. JO Lt. Kendrick, do you think Santiago was murdered? KENDRICK Commander, I believe in God, and in his son Jesus Christ, and because I do, I can say this: Private Santiago is dead and that's a tragedy. But he's dead because he had no code. He's dead because he had no honor. And God was watching. SAM turns to KAFFEE. SAM How do you feel about that theory? KAFFEE (beat) Sounds good. Let's move on. SAM and KENDRICK walk out the door. JO stops KAFFEE. JO You planning on doing any investigating or are you just gonna take the guided tour? KAFFEE (beat) I'm pacing myself. CUT TO: INT. THE OFFICERS CLUB - DAY JESSEP, MARKINSON, KENDRICK and the LAWYERS are seated at a table in the corner. Stewards clear the lunch dishes and pour coffee. Jessep is finishing a story. JESSEP ...And they spent the next three hours running around, looking for Americans to surrender to. JESSEP laughs. KENDRICK joins him. SAM and KAFFEE force a laugh. MARKINSON forces a smile. JO remains silent. JESSEP (continuing; to the STEWARDS) That was delicious, men, thank you. STEWARD Our pleasure, sir. KAFFEE Colonel just need to ask you a couple of questions about August 6th. JESSEP Shoot. KAFFEE On the morning of the sixth, you were contacted by an NIS angent who said that Santiago had tipped him off to an illegal fenceline shooting. JESSEP Yes. KAFFEE Santiago was gonna reveal the person's name in exchange for a transfer. An I getting this right? JESSEP Yes. KAFFEE If you feel there are any details that I'm missing, you should free to speak up. JESSEP's not quite sure what to say to this Navy Lawyer Lieutenant-Smartass guy who just gave him permission to speak freely on his own base. JESSEP Thank you. KAFFEE Now it was at this point that you called Captain Markinson and Lt. Kendrick into your office? JESSEP Yes. KAFFEE And what happened then? JESSEP We agreed that for his own safety, Santiago should be transferred off the base. Here's something else KAFFEE didn't know. Neither did Jo. SAM jots something down on a small notepad. MARKINSON doesn't flinch. KAFFEE Santiago was set to be transferred? JESSEP On the first available flight to the states. Six the next morning. Three hours too late as it turned out. KAFFEE nods. KAFFEE Yeah. There's silence for a moment. KAFFEE takes a sip of his coffee. Then drains the cup and puts it down. KAFFEE (continuing) Alright, that's all I have. Thanks very much for your time. KENDRICK The corporal's got the jeep outside, he'll take you back to the airstrip. KAFFEE (standing) Thank you. JO Wait a minute, I've got some questions. KAFFEE No you don't. JO Yes I do. KAFFEE No you don't. JO Colonel, on the morning that Santiago died, did you meet with Doctor Stone between three and five? KAFFEE Jo -- JESSEP Of course I met with the doctor. One of my men was dead. KAFFEE (to JO) See? The man was dead. Let's go. JO (to JESSEP) I was wondering if you've ever heard the term Code Red. KAFFEE Jo -- JESSEP I've heard the term, yes. JO Colonel, this past February, you received a cautionary memo from the Naval Investigative Service, warning that the practice of enlisted men disciplining their own wasn't to be condoned by officers. JESSEP I submit to you that whoever wrote that memo has never served on the working end of a Soviet-made Cuban Ml-Al6 Assault Rifle. However, the directive having come from the NIS, I gave it its due attention. What's your point, Jo? KAFFEE She has no point. She often has no point. It's part of her charm. We're outta here. Thank you. JO My point is that I think code reds still go on down here. Do Code Reds still happen on this base, colonel? KAFFEE Jo, the colonel doesn't need to answer that. JO Yes he does. KAFFEE No, he really doesn't. JO Yeah, he really does. Colonel? JESSEP You know it just hit me. She outranks you, Danny. KAFFEE Yes sir. JESSEP I want to tell you something Danny and listen up 'cause I mean this: You're the luckiest man in the world. There is, believe me gentlemen, nothing sexier on earth than a woman you have to salute in the morning. Promote 'em all I say. JO's not upset. JO's not mad. But she's gonna ask her question 'til she gets an answer. JO Colonel, the practice of code Reds is still condoned by officers on this base, isn't it? JESSEP You see my problem is, of course, that I'm a Colonel. I'll just have to keep taking cold showers 'til they elect some gal President. JO I need an answer to my question, sir. JESSEP Take caution in your tone, Commander. I'm a fair guy, but this fuckin' heat's making me absolutely crazy. You want to know about code reds? On the record I tell you that I discourage the practice in accordance with the NIS directive. Off the record I tell you that it's an invaluable part of close infantry training, and if it happens to go on without my knowledge, so be it. I run my base how I run my base. You want to investigate me, roll the dice and take your chances. I eat breakfast 80 yards away from 4000 Cubans who are trained to kill me. So don't for one second think you're gonna come down here, flash a badge, and make me nervous. A moment of tense silence before -- KAFFEE Let's go. Colonel, I'll just need a copy of Santiago's transfer order. JESSEP What's that? KAFFEE Santiago's transfer order. You guys have paper work on that kind of thing, I just need it for the file. JESSEP For the file. KAFFEE Yeah. JESSEP (pause) Of course you can have a copy of the transfer order. For the file. I'm here to help anyway I can. KAFFEE Thank you. JESSEP You believe that, don't you? Danny? That I'm here to help anyway I can? KAFFEE Of course. JESSEP The corporal'll run you by Ordinance on your way out to the airstrip. You can have all the transfer orders you want. KAFFEE (to JO and SAM) Let's go. The LAWYERS start to leave. JESSEP But you have to ask me nicely. KAFFEE stops. Turns around. Sam and JO stop and turn. KAFFEE I beg your pardon? JESSEP You have to ask me nicely. You see, Danny, I can deal with the bullets and the bombs and the blood. I can deal with the heat and the stress and the fear. I don't want money and I don't want medals. What I want is for you to stand there in that faggoty white uniform, and with your Harvard mouth, extend me some fuckin' courtesy. You gotta ask me nicely. KAFFEE and JESSEP are frozen. Everyone'staring at Kaffee; The OFFICERS at their tables... KENDRICK... SAM... MARKINSON... JO... KAFFEE makes his decision. KAFFEE Colonel Jessep... if it's not too much trouble, I'd like a copy of the transfer order. Sir. JESSEP smiles. JESSEP No problem. HOLD for a moment. JO's very disappointed. JESSEP stands there and watches the LAWYERS as they turn and leave the Officer's Club. JESSEP (continuing) I hate casualties, Matthew. There are casualties even in victory. A marine smothers a grenade and saves his platoon, that marine's a hero. The foundation of the unit, the fabric of this base, the spirit of the Corps, they are things worth fighting for. MARKINSON looks at the ground. JESSEP (continuing) Dawson and Downey, they don't know it, but they're smothering a grenade. MARKINSON looks up as we CUT TO: EXT. ANDREWS AIRFORCE BASE - DUSK As a plane touches down on the runway. It's dusk in Washington and CUT TO: EXT. KAFFEE'S APARTMENT - DAY A little one-bedroom. Just the essential furniture, barely even that. KAFFEE's sitting and watching a baseball came on t.v. He's holding a copy of The Baseball Encyclopedia, normally his favorite reading material, but right now he's having trouble keeping his mind in it. He's holding a baseball bat and fiddling with it. The remnants of a pizza and Yoo-Hoo dinner sit next to him. His white uniform in a pile in the corner. There's a BUZZ at the door. KAFFEE's not expecting anyone. He goes to the door. KAFFEE Who is it? JO (O.S.) It's me. KAFFEE opens the door and JO walks in. KAFFEE I've really missed you, Jo. I was just saying to myself, "It's been almost three hours since I last saw -- " JO Markinson resigned his commission. KAFFEE (pause) When? JO This afternoon. Sometime after we left. KAFFEE I'll talk to him in the morning. JO I already tried, I can't find him. KAFFEE You tried? Joanne, you're coming dangerously close to the textbook definition of interfering with a government investigation. JO hands KAFFEE the file she's been holding. JO I'm Louden Downey's attorney. KAFFEE's stunned. He opens the file and begins to read. JO (continuing) Aunt Ginny. She said she feels like she's known me for years. I suggested that she might feel more comfortable if I were directly involved with the case. She had Louden sign the papers about an hour ago. KAFFEE looks up. Still too stunned to say anything. Then finally... KAFFEE I suppose it's way too much to hope that you're just making this up to bother me. JO Don't worry, I'm not gonna make a motion for separation, you're still lead counsel. KAFFEE hands her back the file. KAFFEE Splendid. JO I think Kendrick ordered the Code Red. (beat) So do you. CUT TO: INT. A HOLDING ROOM IN THE BRIG - NIGHT DAWSON and DOWNEY come to attention as KAFFEE and JO are led in. DAWSON Officer on deck, ten hut. KAFFEE starts in immediately. KAFFEE Did Kendrick order the code red? DAWSON Sir? KAFFEE Don't say sir like I just asked you if you cleaned the latrine. You heard what I said. Did Lt. Kendrick order you guys to give Santiago a code red? DAWSON Yes sir. KAFFEE (to Downey) Did he? DOWNEY Yes sir. KAFFEE You mind telling me why the hell you never mentioned this before? DAWSON You didn't ask us, sir. KAFFEE Cutie-pie shit's not gonna win you a place in my heart, corporal, I get paid no matter how much time you spend in jail. DAWSON Yes

round

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

was damn funny. Jo moves close to KAFFEE to say this with a degree of confidentiality. JO I do know you. Daniel AlliStair Kaffee, born June 8th, 1964 at Boston Mercy Hospital. Your father's Lionel Kaffee, former Navy Judge Advocate and Attorney General, of the United States, died 1985. You went to Harvard Law on a Navy scholarship, probably because that's what your father wanted you to do, and now you're just treading water for the three years you've gotta serve in the JAG Corps, just kinda layin' low til you can get out and get a real job. And if that's the situation, that's fine, I won't tell anyone. But my feeling is that if this case is handled in the same fast-food, slick-ass, Persian Bazaar manner with which you seem to handle everything else, something's gonna get missed. And I wouldn't be doing my job if I allowed Dawson and Downey to spend any more time in prison than absolutely necessary, because their attorney had pre- determined the path of least resistance. KAFFEE can't help but be impressed by that speech. KAFFEE Wow. (beat) I'm sexually aroused, Commander. JO I don't think your clients murdered anybody. KAFFEE What are you basing this on? JO There was no intent. KAFFEE The doctor's report says that Santiago died of asphyxiation brought on by acute lactic acidosis, and that the nature of the acidosis strongly suggests poisoning. (beat) Now, I don't know what any of that means, but it sounds pretty bad. JO Santiago died at one a.m. At three the doctor was unable to determine the cause of death, but two hours later he said it was poison. KAFFEE Oh, now I see what you're saying. It had to be Professor Plum in the library with the candlestick. JO I'm gonna speak to your supervisor. KAFFEE Okay. You go straight up Pennsylvania Avenue. It's a big white house with pillars in front. JO Thank you. KAFFEE I don't think you'll have much luck, though. I was assigned by Division, remember? Somebody over there thinks I'm a good lawyer. So while I appreciate your interest and admire your enthusiasm, I think I can pretty much handle things myself. JO Do you know what a code red is? KAFFEE doesn't, but he doesn't say anything. JO (continuing) What a pity. CUT TO: INT. THE BRIG - DAY And an M.P. is leading KAFFEE and SAM down to DAWSON and DOWNEY's cell. M.P. Officer on deck, ten-hut. DAWSON and DOWNEY come to attention. Through the following, the M.P. will unlock the call door and let the lawyers in. DAWSON Sir, Lance Corporal Harold W. Dawson, sir. Rifle Security Company Windward, Second Platoon, Delta. KAFFEE Someone hasn't been working and playing well with others, Harold. DAWSON Sir, yes sir! DOWNEY Sir, PFC Louden Downey. KAFFEE I'm Daniel Kaffee, this is Sam Weinerg, you can sitdown. DAWSON and DOWNEY aren't too comfortable sitting in the presence of officers, but they do as they're told. KAFFEE's pulled out some documents, SAM's sitting on one of the cots taking notes. KAFFEE (continuing; to DAWSON) Is this your signature? DAWSON Yes sir. KAFFEE You don't have to call me sir. (to DOWNEY) Is this your signature? DOWNEY Sir, yes sir. KAFFEE And you certainly don't have to do it twice in one sentence. Harold, what's a Code Red? DAWSON Sir, a Code Red is a disciplinary engagement. KAFFEE What does that mean, exactly? DAWSON Sir, a marine falls out of line, it's up to the men in his unit to get him back on track. KAFFEE What's a garden variety Code Red? DAWSON Sir? KAFFEE Harold, you say sir and I turn around and look for my father. Danny, Daniel, Kaffee. Garden variety; typical. What's a basic Code Red? DAWSON Sir, a marine has refused to bathe on a regular basis. The men in his squad would give him a G.I. shower. KAFFEE What's that? DAWSON Scrub brushes, brillo pads, steel wool... SAM Beautiful. KAFFEE Was the attack on Santiago a Code Red? DAWSON Yes sir. KAFFEE (to DOWNEY) Do you ever talk? DAWSON Sir, Private Downey will answer any direct questions you ask him. KAFFEE Swell. Private Downey, the rag you stuffed in Santiago's mouth, was there poison on it? DOWNEY No sir. KAFFEE Silver polish, turpentine, anti- freeze... DOWNEY No sir. We were gonna shave his head, sir. KAFFEE When all of a sudden...? DOWNEY We saw blood drippinq out of his mouth. Then we pulled the tape off, and there was blood all down his face, sir. That's when Corporal Dawson called the ambulance. KAFFEE tries not to make too big a deal out of this last piece of news. KAFFEE (to DAWSON) Did anyone see you call the ambulance? DAWSON No sir. KAFFEE Were you there when the ambulance got there? DAWSON Yes sir, that's when we were taken under arrest. KAFFEE kinda strolls to the corner of the cell to think for a moment. SAM (to DAWSON) On the night of August 2nd, did you fire a shot across the fenceline into Cuba? DAWSON Yes sir. SAM Why? DAWSON My mirror engaged, sir. KAFFEE (to SAM) His mirror engaged? SAM For each American sentry post there's a Cuban counterpart. They're called mirrors. The corporal's claiming that his mirror was about to fire at him. KAFFEE Santiago's letter to the NIS said you fired illegally. He's saying that the guy, the mirror, he never made a move. DAWSON says nothing. KAFFEE (continuing) Oh, Harold? SAM is staring at DAWSON. KAFFEE (continuing) You see what I'm getting at? If Santiago didn't have anything on you, then why did you give him a Code Red? DAWSON Because he broke the chain of command, sir. KAFFEE He what? DAWSON He went outside his unit, sir. If he had a problem, he should've spoken to me, sir. Then his Sergeant, then Company Commander, then -- KAFFEE Yeah, yeah, alright. Harold, did you assault Santiago with the intent of killing him? DAWSON No sir. KAFFEE What was your intent? DAWSON To train him, sir. KAFFEE Train him to do what? DAWSON Train him to think of his unit before himself. To respect the code. SAM What's the code? DAWSON Unit Corps God Country. SAM I beg your pardon? DAWSON Unit Corps God Country, sir. KAFFEE The Goverrment of the United States wants to charge you two with murder. You want me to go to the prosecutor with unit, corps, god, country? DAWSON stares at KAFFEE. DAWSON That's our code, sir. KAFFEE takes a long moment. He picks up his briefcase and he and SAM move to the door. KAFFEE We'll be back. You guys need anything? Books paper, cigarettes, a ham sandwich? DAWSON Sir. No thank you. Sir. KAFFEE smiles at DAWSON. KAFFEE Harold, I think there's a concept you better start warming up to. DAWSON Sir? KAFFEE I'm the only friend you've got. And as KAFFEE and SAM walk out the open cell door, DAWSON and DOWNEY come to attention and snap a salute. They hold the salute until KAFFEE and SAM are well out of sight, and we CUT TO: INT. KAFFEE'S OFFICE - DAY He's packing up stuff into his briefcase at the end of the work day. Lt. JACK ROSS, a marine lawyer maybe two years older than Kaffee, opens the door and walks in.. ROSS Dan Kaffee. KAFFEE Sailin' Jack Ross. ROSS Welcome to the big time. KAFFEE You think so? ROSS I hope for Dawson and Downey's sake you practice law better than you play softball. KAFFEE Unfortunately for Dawson and Downey, I don't do anything better than I play softball. What are we lookin' at? ROSS They plead guilty to manslaughter, I'll drop the conspiracy and the conduct unbecoming. 20 years, they'll be home in half that time. KAFFEE I want twelve. ROSS Can't do it. KAFFEE They called the ambulance, Jack. ROSS I don't care if they called the Avon Lady, they killed a marine. KAFFEE The rag was tested for poison. The autopsy, lab report, even the initial E.R. and C.O.D. reports. They all say the same thing: Maybe, maybe not. ROSS The Chief of Internal Medicine at the Guantanamo Bay Naval hospital says he's sure. KAFFEE What do you know about Code Reds? ROSS smiles and shakes his head. ROSS Oh man. He closes the office door. ROSS (continuing) Are we off the record? KAFFEE You tell me. ROSS (pause) I'm gonna give you the twelve years, but before you go getting yourself into trouble tomorrow, you should know this: The platoon commander Lt. Jonathan Kendrick, had a meeting with the men. And he specifically told them not to touch Santiago. KAFFEE holds for a moment. Dawson and Downey neglected to mention this... He packs up his briefcase and cleats. KAFFEE I'll talk to you when I get back. ROSS Hey, we got a little four-on-four going tomorrow night. When does your plane get in? CUT TO: EXT. THE PARKING LOT - DUSK It's dusk and people on the base are going home from work. We can see the flag being lowered in the background. KAFFEE's walking toward his car. JO intercepts him and starts walking along with him. JO Hi there. KAFFEE Any luck getting me replaced? JO Is there anyone in this command that you don't either drink or play softball with? KAFFEE Commander -- JO Listen, I came to make peace. We started off on the wrong foot. What do you say? Friends? KAFFEE Look, I don't -- JO By the way, I brought Downey some comic books he was asking for. The kid, Kaffee, I swear, he doesn't know where he is, he doesn't even know why he's been arrested. KAFFEE Commander -- JO You can call me Joanne. KAFFEE Joanne -- JO or Jo. KAFFEE Jo? JO Yes. KAFFEE Jo, if you ever speak to a client of mine again without my permission, I'll have you disbarred. Friends? JO I had authorization. KAFFEE From where? JO Downey's closest living relative, Ginny Miller, his aunt on his mother's side. KAFFEE You got authorization from Aunt Ginny? JO I gave her a call like you asked. Very nice woman, we talked for about an hour. KAFFEE You got authorization from Aunt Ginny. JO Perfectly within my province. KAFFEE Does Aunt Ginny have a barn? We can hold the trial there. I can sew the costumes, and maybe his Uncle Goober can be the judge. Jo steps aside and lets KAFFEE got into his car. JO I'm going to Cuba with you tomorrow. KAFFEE And the hits just keep on comin'. HOLD on KAFFEE and Jo. JO smiles. CUT TO: EXT. SIDEWALK NEWSSTAND - DUSK KAFFEE IN HIS CAR He's driving down a Washington street and pulls over at a sidewalk newsstand. He gets out of his car, leaving the lights flashing, and runs up to the newsstand. As he plunks his 35 cents down and picks up a newspaper, he engages in his daily ritual with LUTHER, the newsstand operator. KAFFEE How's it goin', Luther? LUTHER Another day, another dollar, captain. KAFFEE You gotta play 'em as they lay, Luther. LUTHER What comes around, goes around, you know what I'm sayin'. KAFFEE If you can't beat 'em, join 'em. LUTHER Hey, if you've got your health, you got everything. KAFFEE Love makes the world go round. I'll see you tomorrow, Luther. And we CUT TO: INT. SAM'S LIVING ROOM - NIGHT A baby sleeping in a crib pull rack to reveal SAM is standing over the crib. KAFFEE's sitting on a beer. SAM When Nancy gets back, you're my witness. The baby spoke. My daughter said a word. KAFFEE Your daughter made a sound, Sam, I'm not sure it was a word. SAM Oh come on, it was a word. KAFFEE Okay. SAM You heard her. The girl sat here, pointed, and said "Pa". She did. She said "Pa". KAFFEE She was pointing at a doorknob. SAM That's right. Pointing, as if to say, "Pa, look, a doorknob". SAM joins KAFFEE in the living room. KAFFEE Jack Ross came to see me today. He offered me twelve years. SAM That's what you wanted. KAFFEE I know, and I'll... I guess, I mean -- (beat) I'll take it. SAM So? KAFFEE It took albout 45 seconds. He barely put up a fight. SAM (beat) Danny, take the twelve years, it's a gift. KAFFEE finishes off his beer, and stands. KAFFEE You don't believe their story, do you? You think they ought to go to jail for the rest of their lives. SAM I believe every word they said. And I think they ought to go to jail for the rest of their lives. KAFFEE nods and puts down the empty beer bottle. KAFFEE I'll see you tomorrow. Sam opens the front door for him and they stand out on the stoop for a moment. SAM Remember to wear your whites, it's hot down there. KAFFEE I don't like the whites. SAM Nobody likes the whites, but we're going to Cuba in August. You got Dramamine? KAFFEE Dramamine keeps you cool? SAM Dramamine keeps you from throwing up, you get sick when you fly. KAFFEE I get sick when I fly because I'm afraid of crashing into a large mountain, I don't think Dramamine'll help. SAM I've got some oregano, I hear that works pretty good. KAFFEE Yeah, right. KAFFEE starts toward his car, then turns around. KAFFEE (continuing) You know, Ross said the strangest thing to me right before I left. He said the platoon commander Lieutenant Jonathan Kendrick had a meeting with the men and specifically told them not to touch Santiago. SAM So? KAFFEE I never mentioned Kendrick. I don't even know who he is. (beat) What the hell. (beat) I'll see you tomorrow. We hold for a moment on KAFFEE as he walks to his car, then CUT TO: EXT. THE AIRSTRIP AT GUANTANAMO BAY - DAY The whole place, in stark contrast to the Washington Navy Yard, is ready to go to war. Fighter jets line the tarmac. Ground crews re-fuel planes. Hurried activity. A 36 seat Airforce Jet rolls to a stop on the tarmac and a stair unit is brought up. HOWARD, a marine corporal, is waiting by the stairway as the passengers begin to got off. Mostly MARINES, a few SAILORS, a couple of CIVILIANS, and KAFFEE, JO and SAM. KAFFEE and SAM are wearing their summer whites, JO is in khakis. KAFFEE and SAM stare out at what they see: They're not in Kansas anymore. HOWARD shouts over the noise from the planes. HOWARD Lieutenants Kaffee and Weinberg? KAFFEE (shouting) Yeah. JO Commander Galloway. HOWARD I'm Corporal Howard, ma'am, I'm to escort you to the Windward side of the base. JO Thank you. HOWARD I've got some camouflage jackets in the back of the jeep, sirs, I'll have to ask you both to put them on. KAFFEE Camouflage jackets? HOWARD Regulations, sir. We'll be riding pretty close to the fenceline. The Cubans see an officer wearing white, they think it's someone they might wanna take a shot at. KAFFEE turns and glares at SAM. KAFFEE Good call, Sam. CUT TO: EXT. CUBAN ROAD - THE JEEP - DAY Tearing along down the road, and now we see a beautiful expanse of water, maybe 1000 yards across. It's a section of Guantanamo Bay. HOWARD (shouting) We'll just hop on the ferry and be over there in no time. KAFFEE (shouting) Whoa! Hold it! We gotta take a boat?! HOWARD Yes sir, to get to the other side of the bay. KAFFEE Nobody said anything about a boat. HOWARD (shouting) Is there a problem, sir? KAFFEE (shouting) No. No problem. I'm just not that crazy about boats, that's all. JO (shouting) Jesus Christ, Kaffee, you're in the Navy for cryin' out loud! KAFFEE (shouting) Nobody likes her very much. HOWARD (shouting) Yes sir. The jeep drives on and we CUT TO: JESSEP, MARKINSON and KENDRICK are standing as the LAWYERS are led in. JESSEP Nathan Jessep, come on in and siddown. KAFFEE Thank you. I'm Daniel Kaffee, I'm the attorney for Dawson and Downey. This is Joanne Galloway, she's observing and evaluating -- JO (shaking hands) Colonel. JESSEP Pleased to meet you, Commander. KAFFEE Sam Weinberg. He has no responsibility here whatsoever. JESSEP I've asked Captain Markinson and Lt. Kendrick to join us. MARKINSON Lt. Kaffee, I had the pleasure of seeing your father once. I was a teenager and he spoke at my high school. KAFFEE smiles and nods. JESSEP Lionel Kaffee? KAFFEE Yes sir. JESSEP Well what do you know. Son, this man's dad once made a lot of enemies down in your neck of the woods. Jefferson vs. Madison County School District. The folks down there said a little black girl couldn't go to an all white school, Lionel Kaffee said we'll just see about that. How the hell is your dad? KAFFEE He passed away seven years ago, colonel. JESSEP (pause) Well... don't I feel like the fuckin, asshole. KAFFEE Not at all, sir. JESSEP Well, what can we do for you, Danny. KAFFEE Not much at all, sir, I'm afraid. This is really a formality more than anything else. The JAG Corps insists that I interview all the relevant witnesses. JO The JAG Corps can be demanding that way. JESSEP smiles. JESSEP Jonanthan'll take you out and show you what you wanna see, then we can all hook up for lunch, how does that sound? KAFFEE Fine, sir. CUT TO: EXT. THE FENCELINE - DAY A SQUAD OF MARINES jogs by as a jeep carrying KENDRICK and the three LAWYERS cruises down the road. We FOLLOW the jeep. KAFFEE I understand you had a meeting with your men that afternoon. KENDRICK Yes. KAFFEE What'd you guys talk about? KENDRICK I told the men that there was an informer among us. And that despite any desire they might have to seek retribution, Private Santiago was not to be harmed in any way. KAFFEE What time was that meeting? KENDRICK Sixteen-hundred. KAFFEE turns around and looks at SAM. SAM (leaning forward) Four o'clock. CUT TO: INT. THE BARRACKS CORRIDOR - DAY KENDRICK leads the LAWYERS down the corridor to Santiago's room. Two strips of tape which warn DO NOT ENTER - AT ORDER OF THE MILITARY POLICE are crisscrossed over the closed door. They open the door and step under the tape and walk into INT. SANTIAGO'S ROOM - DAY The room is exactly an it was left that night. The un-made bed, the chair knocked over... The LAWYERS look around for a moment. The room is sparse. Kaffee goes to the closet and opens it: A row of uniforms hanging neatly. He thumbs through then for a second, but there's nothing there. He opens the footlocker: Socks, underwear... all folded to marine corp precision... A shaving kit, a couple of photographs, a pad of writing paper and some envelopes... Kaffee closes the footlocker. KAFFEE Sam, somebody should see about getting this stuff to his parents. We don't need it anymore. KENDRICK Actually, the uniforms belong to the marine corps. The LAWYERS take a moment. KAFFEE Lt. Kendrick -- can I call you Jon? KENDRICK No, you may not. KAFFEE (beat) Have I done something to offend you? KENDRICK No, I like all you Navy boys. Every time we've gotta go someplace and fight, you fellas always give us a ride. JO Lt. Kendrick, do you think Santiago was murdered? KENDRICK Commander, I believe in God, and in his son Jesus Christ, and because I do, I can say this: Private Santiago is dead and that's a tragedy. But he's dead because he had no code. He's dead because he had no honor. And God was watching. SAM turns to KAFFEE. SAM How do you feel about that theory? KAFFEE (beat) Sounds good. Let's move on. SAM and KENDRICK walk out the door. JO stops KAFFEE. JO You planning on doing any investigating or are you just gonna take the guided tour? KAFFEE (beat) I'm pacing myself. CUT TO: INT. THE OFFICERS CLUB - DAY JESSEP, MARKINSON, KENDRICK and the LAWYERS are seated at a table in the corner. Stewards clear the lunch dishes and pour coffee. Jessep is finishing a story. JESSEP ...And they spent the next three hours running around, looking for Americans to surrender to. JESSEP laughs. KENDRICK joins him. SAM and KAFFEE force a laugh. MARKINSON forces a smile. JO remains silent. JESSEP (continuing; to the STEWARDS) That was delicious, men, thank you. STEWARD Our pleasure, sir. KAFFEE Colonel just need to ask you a couple of questions about August 6th. JESSEP Shoot. KAFFEE On the morning of the sixth, you were contacted by an NIS angent who said that Santiago had tipped him off to an illegal fenceline shooting. JESSEP Yes. KAFFEE Santiago was gonna reveal the person's name in exchange for a transfer. An I getting this right? JESSEP Yes. KAFFEE If you feel there are any details that I'm missing, you should free to speak up. JESSEP's not quite sure what to say to this Navy Lawyer Lieutenant-Smartass guy who just gave him permission to speak freely on his own base. JESSEP Thank you. KAFFEE Now it was at this point that you called Captain Markinson and Lt. Kendrick into your office? JESSEP Yes. KAFFEE And what happened then? JESSEP We agreed that for his own safety, Santiago should be transferred off the base. Here's something else KAFFEE didn't know. Neither did Jo. SAM jots something down on a small notepad. MARKINSON doesn't flinch. KAFFEE Santiago was set to be transferred? JESSEP On the first available flight to the states. Six the next morning. Three hours too late as it turned out. KAFFEE nods. KAFFEE Yeah. There's silence for a moment. KAFFEE takes a sip of his coffee. Then drains the cup and puts it down. KAFFEE (continuing) Alright, that's all I have. Thanks very much for your time. KENDRICK The corporal's got the jeep outside, he'll take you back to the airstrip. KAFFEE (standing) Thank you. JO Wait a minute, I've got some questions. KAFFEE No you don't. JO Yes I do. KAFFEE No you don't. JO Colonel, on the morning that Santiago died, did you meet with Doctor Stone between three and five? KAFFEE Jo -- JESSEP Of course I met with the doctor. One of my men was dead. KAFFEE (to JO) See? The man was dead. Let's go. JO (to JESSEP) I was wondering if you've ever heard the term Code Red. KAFFEE Jo -- JESSEP I've heard the term, yes. JO Colonel, this past February, you received a cautionary memo from the Naval Investigative Service, warning that the practice of enlisted men disciplining their own wasn't to be condoned by officers. JESSEP I submit to you that whoever wrote that memo has never served on the working end of a Soviet-made Cuban Ml-Al6 Assault Rifle. However, the directive having come from the NIS, I gave it its due attention. What's your point, Jo? KAFFEE She has no point. She often has no point. It's part of her charm. We're outta here. Thank you. JO My point is that I think code reds still go on down here. Do Code Reds still happen on this base, colonel? KAFFEE Jo, the colonel doesn't need to answer that. JO Yes he does. KAFFEE No, he really doesn't. JO Yeah, he really does. Colonel? JESSEP You know it just hit me. She outranks you, Danny. KAFFEE Yes sir. JESSEP I want to tell you something Danny and listen up 'cause I mean this: You're the luckiest man in the world. There is, believe me gentlemen, nothing sexier on earth than a woman you have to salute in the morning. Promote 'em all I say. JO's not upset. JO's not mad. But she's gonna ask her question 'til she gets an answer. JO Colonel, the practice of code Reds is still condoned by officers on this base, isn't it? JESSEP You see my problem is, of course, that I'm a Colonel. I'll just have to keep taking cold showers 'til they elect some gal President. JO I need an answer to my question, sir. JESSEP Take caution in your tone, Commander. I'm a fair guy, but this fuckin' heat's making me absolutely crazy. You want to know about code reds? On the record I tell you that I discourage the practice in accordance with the NIS directive. Off the record I tell you that it's an invaluable part of close infantry training, and if it happens to go on without my knowledge, so be it. I run my base how I run my base. You want to investigate me, roll the dice and take your chances. I eat breakfast 80 yards away from 4000 Cubans who are trained to kill me. So don't for one second think you're gonna come down here, flash a badge, and make me nervous. A moment of tense silence before -- KAFFEE Let's go. Colonel, I'll just need a copy of Santiago's transfer order. JESSEP What's that? KAFFEE Santiago's transfer order. You guys have paper work on that kind of thing, I just need it for the file. JESSEP For the file. KAFFEE Yeah. JESSEP (pause) Of course you can have a copy of the transfer order. For the file. I'm here to help anyway I can. KAFFEE Thank you. JESSEP You believe that, don't you? Danny? That I'm here to help anyway I can? KAFFEE Of course. JESSEP The corporal'll run you by Ordinance on your way out to the airstrip. You can have all the transfer orders you want. KAFFEE (to JO and SAM) Let's go. The LAWYERS start to leave. JESSEP But you have to ask me nicely. KAFFEE stops. Turns around. Sam and JO stop and turn. KAFFEE I beg your pardon? JESSEP You have to ask me nicely. You see, Danny, I can deal with the bullets and the bombs and the blood. I can deal with the heat and the stress and the fear. I don't want money and I don't want medals. What I want is for you to stand there in that faggoty white uniform, and with your Harvard mouth, extend me some fuckin' courtesy. You gotta ask me nicely. KAFFEE and JESSEP are frozen. Everyone'staring at Kaffee; The OFFICERS at their tables... KENDRICK... SAM... MARKINSON... JO... KAFFEE makes his decision. KAFFEE Colonel Jessep... if it's not too much trouble, I'd like a copy of the transfer order. Sir. JESSEP smiles. JESSEP No problem. HOLD for a moment. JO's very disappointed. JESSEP stands there and watches the LAWYERS as they turn and leave the Officer's Club. JESSEP (continuing) I hate casualties, Matthew. There are casualties even in victory. A marine smothers a grenade and saves his platoon, that marine's a hero. The foundation of the unit, the fabric of this base, the spirit of the Corps, they are things worth fighting for. MARKINSON looks at the ground. JESSEP (continuing) Dawson and Downey, they don't know it, but they're smothering a grenade. MARKINSON looks up as we CUT TO: EXT. ANDREWS AIRFORCE BASE - DUSK As a plane touches down on the runway. It's dusk in Washington and CUT TO: EXT. KAFFEE'S APARTMENT - DAY A little one-bedroom. Just the essential furniture, barely even that. KAFFEE's sitting and watching a baseball came on t.v. He's holding a copy of The Baseball Encyclopedia, normally his favorite reading material, but right now he's having trouble keeping his mind in it. He's holding a baseball bat and fiddling with it. The remnants of a pizza and Yoo-Hoo dinner sit next to him. His white uniform in a pile in the corner. There's a BUZZ at the door. KAFFEE's not expecting anyone. He goes to the door. KAFFEE Who is it? JO (O.S.) It's me. KAFFEE opens the door and JO walks in. KAFFEE I've really missed you, Jo. I was just saying to myself, "It's been almost three hours since I last saw -- " JO Markinson resigned his commission. KAFFEE (pause) When? JO This afternoon. Sometime after we left. KAFFEE I'll talk to him in the morning. JO I already tried, I can't find him. KAFFEE You tried? Joanne, you're coming dangerously close to the textbook definition of interfering with a government investigation. JO hands KAFFEE the file she's been holding. JO I'm Louden Downey's attorney. KAFFEE's stunned. He opens the file and begins to read. JO (continuing) Aunt Ginny. She said she feels like she's known me for years. I suggested that she might feel more comfortable if I were directly involved with the case. She had Louden sign the papers about an hour ago. KAFFEE looks up. Still too stunned to say anything. Then finally... KAFFEE I suppose it's way too much to hope that you're just making this up to bother me. JO Don't worry, I'm not gonna make a motion for separation, you're still lead counsel. KAFFEE hands her back the file. KAFFEE Splendid. JO I think Kendrick ordered the Code Red. (beat) So do you. CUT TO: INT. A HOLDING ROOM IN THE BRIG - NIGHT DAWSON and DOWNEY come to attention as KAFFEE and JO are led in. DAWSON Officer on deck, ten hut. KAFFEE starts in immediately. KAFFEE Did Kendrick order the code red? DAWSON Sir? KAFFEE Don't say sir like I just asked you if you cleaned the latrine. You heard what I said. Did Lt. Kendrick order you guys to give Santiago a code red? DAWSON Yes sir. KAFFEE (to Downey) Did he? DOWNEY Yes sir. KAFFEE You mind telling me why the hell you never mentioned this before? DAWSON You didn't ask us, sir. KAFFEE Cutie-pie shit's not gonna win you a place in my heart, corporal, I get paid no matter how much time you spend in jail. DAWSON Yes

filtering

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

was damn funny. Jo moves close to KAFFEE to say this with a degree of confidentiality. JO I do know you. Daniel AlliStair Kaffee, born June 8th, 1964 at Boston Mercy Hospital. Your father's Lionel Kaffee, former Navy Judge Advocate and Attorney General, of the United States, died 1985. You went to Harvard Law on a Navy scholarship, probably because that's what your father wanted you to do, and now you're just treading water for the three years you've gotta serve in the JAG Corps, just kinda layin' low til you can get out and get a real job. And if that's the situation, that's fine, I won't tell anyone. But my feeling is that if this case is handled in the same fast-food, slick-ass, Persian Bazaar manner with which you seem to handle everything else, something's gonna get missed. And I wouldn't be doing my job if I allowed Dawson and Downey to spend any more time in prison than absolutely necessary, because their attorney had pre- determined the path of least resistance. KAFFEE can't help but be impressed by that speech. KAFFEE Wow. (beat) I'm sexually aroused, Commander. JO I don't think your clients murdered anybody. KAFFEE What are you basing this on? JO There was no intent. KAFFEE The doctor's report says that Santiago died of asphyxiation brought on by acute lactic acidosis, and that the nature of the acidosis strongly suggests poisoning. (beat) Now, I don't know what any of that means, but it sounds pretty bad. JO Santiago died at one a.m. At three the doctor was unable to determine the cause of death, but two hours later he said it was poison. KAFFEE Oh, now I see what you're saying. It had to be Professor Plum in the library with the candlestick. JO I'm gonna speak to your supervisor. KAFFEE Okay. You go straight up Pennsylvania Avenue. It's a big white house with pillars in front. JO Thank you. KAFFEE I don't think you'll have much luck, though. I was assigned by Division, remember? Somebody over there thinks I'm a good lawyer. So while I appreciate your interest and admire your enthusiasm, I think I can pretty much handle things myself. JO Do you know what a code red is? KAFFEE doesn't, but he doesn't say anything. JO (continuing) What a pity. CUT TO: INT. THE BRIG - DAY And an M.P. is leading KAFFEE and SAM down to DAWSON and DOWNEY's cell. M.P. Officer on deck, ten-hut. DAWSON and DOWNEY come to attention. Through the following, the M.P. will unlock the call door and let the lawyers in. DAWSON Sir, Lance Corporal Harold W. Dawson, sir. Rifle Security Company Windward, Second Platoon, Delta. KAFFEE Someone hasn't been working and playing well with others, Harold. DAWSON Sir, yes sir! DOWNEY Sir, PFC Louden Downey. KAFFEE I'm Daniel Kaffee, this is Sam Weinerg, you can sitdown. DAWSON and DOWNEY aren't too comfortable sitting in the presence of officers, but they do as they're told. KAFFEE's pulled out some documents, SAM's sitting on one of the cots taking notes. KAFFEE (continuing; to DAWSON) Is this your signature? DAWSON Yes sir. KAFFEE You don't have to call me sir. (to DOWNEY) Is this your signature? DOWNEY Sir, yes sir. KAFFEE And you certainly don't have to do it twice in one sentence. Harold, what's a Code Red? DAWSON Sir, a Code Red is a disciplinary engagement. KAFFEE What does that mean, exactly? DAWSON Sir, a marine falls out of line, it's up to the men in his unit to get him back on track. KAFFEE What's a garden variety Code Red? DAWSON Sir? KAFFEE Harold, you say sir and I turn around and look for my father. Danny, Daniel, Kaffee. Garden variety; typical. What's a basic Code Red? DAWSON Sir, a marine has refused to bathe on a regular basis. The men in his squad would give him a G.I. shower. KAFFEE What's that? DAWSON Scrub brushes, brillo pads, steel wool... SAM Beautiful. KAFFEE Was the attack on Santiago a Code Red? DAWSON Yes sir. KAFFEE (to DOWNEY) Do you ever talk? DAWSON Sir, Private Downey will answer any direct questions you ask him. KAFFEE Swell. Private Downey, the rag you stuffed in Santiago's mouth, was there poison on it? DOWNEY No sir. KAFFEE Silver polish, turpentine, anti- freeze... DOWNEY No sir. We were gonna shave his head, sir. KAFFEE When all of a sudden...? DOWNEY We saw blood drippinq out of his mouth. Then we pulled the tape off, and there was blood all down his face, sir. That's when Corporal Dawson called the ambulance. KAFFEE tries not to make too big a deal out of this last piece of news. KAFFEE (to DAWSON) Did anyone see you call the ambulance? DAWSON No sir. KAFFEE Were you there when the ambulance got there? DAWSON Yes sir, that's when we were taken under arrest. KAFFEE kinda strolls to the corner of the cell to think for a moment. SAM (to DAWSON) On the night of August 2nd, did you fire a shot across the fenceline into Cuba? DAWSON Yes sir. SAM Why? DAWSON My mirror engaged, sir. KAFFEE (to SAM) His mirror engaged? SAM For each American sentry post there's a Cuban counterpart. They're called mirrors. The corporal's claiming that his mirror was about to fire at him. KAFFEE Santiago's letter to the NIS said you fired illegally. He's saying that the guy, the mirror, he never made a move. DAWSON says nothing. KAFFEE (continuing) Oh, Harold? SAM is staring at DAWSON. KAFFEE (continuing) You see what I'm getting at? If Santiago didn't have anything on you, then why did you give him a Code Red? DAWSON Because he broke the chain of command, sir. KAFFEE He what? DAWSON He went outside his unit, sir. If he had a problem, he should've spoken to me, sir. Then his Sergeant, then Company Commander, then -- KAFFEE Yeah, yeah, alright. Harold, did you assault Santiago with the intent of killing him? DAWSON No sir. KAFFEE What was your intent? DAWSON To train him, sir. KAFFEE Train him to do what? DAWSON Train him to think of his unit before himself. To respect the code. SAM What's the code? DAWSON Unit Corps God Country. SAM I beg your pardon? DAWSON Unit Corps God Country, sir. KAFFEE The Goverrment of the United States wants to charge you two with murder. You want me to go to the prosecutor with unit, corps, god, country? DAWSON stares at KAFFEE. DAWSON That's our code, sir. KAFFEE takes a long moment. He picks up his briefcase and he and SAM move to the door. KAFFEE We'll be back. You guys need anything? Books paper, cigarettes, a ham sandwich? DAWSON Sir. No thank you. Sir. KAFFEE smiles at DAWSON. KAFFEE Harold, I think there's a concept you better start warming up to. DAWSON Sir? KAFFEE I'm the only friend you've got. And as KAFFEE and SAM walk out the open cell door, DAWSON and DOWNEY come to attention and snap a salute. They hold the salute until KAFFEE and SAM are well out of sight, and we CUT TO: INT. KAFFEE'S OFFICE - DAY He's packing up stuff into his briefcase at the end of the work day. Lt. JACK ROSS, a marine lawyer maybe two years older than Kaffee, opens the door and walks in.. ROSS Dan Kaffee. KAFFEE Sailin' Jack Ross. ROSS Welcome to the big time. KAFFEE You think so? ROSS I hope for Dawson and Downey's sake you practice law better than you play softball. KAFFEE Unfortunately for Dawson and Downey, I don't do anything better than I play softball. What are we lookin' at? ROSS They plead guilty to manslaughter, I'll drop the conspiracy and the conduct unbecoming. 20 years, they'll be home in half that time. KAFFEE I want twelve. ROSS Can't do it. KAFFEE They called the ambulance, Jack. ROSS I don't care if they called the Avon Lady, they killed a marine. KAFFEE The rag was tested for poison. The autopsy, lab report, even the initial E.R. and C.O.D. reports. They all say the same thing: Maybe, maybe not. ROSS The Chief of Internal Medicine at the Guantanamo Bay Naval hospital says he's sure. KAFFEE What do you know about Code Reds? ROSS smiles and shakes his head. ROSS Oh man. He closes the office door. ROSS (continuing) Are we off the record? KAFFEE You tell me. ROSS (pause) I'm gonna give you the twelve years, but before you go getting yourself into trouble tomorrow, you should know this: The platoon commander Lt. Jonathan Kendrick, had a meeting with the men. And he specifically told them not to touch Santiago. KAFFEE holds for a moment. Dawson and Downey neglected to mention this... He packs up his briefcase and cleats. KAFFEE I'll talk to you when I get back. ROSS Hey, we got a little four-on-four going tomorrow night. When does your plane get in? CUT TO: EXT. THE PARKING LOT - DUSK It's dusk and people on the base are going home from work. We can see the flag being lowered in the background. KAFFEE's walking toward his car. JO intercepts him and starts walking along with him. JO Hi there. KAFFEE Any luck getting me replaced? JO Is there anyone in this command that you don't either drink or play softball with? KAFFEE Commander -- JO Listen, I came to make peace. We started off on the wrong foot. What do you say? Friends? KAFFEE Look, I don't -- JO By the way, I brought Downey some comic books he was asking for. The kid, Kaffee, I swear, he doesn't know where he is, he doesn't even know why he's been arrested. KAFFEE Commander -- JO You can call me Joanne. KAFFEE Joanne -- JO or Jo. KAFFEE Jo? JO Yes. KAFFEE Jo, if you ever speak to a client of mine again without my permission, I'll have you disbarred. Friends? JO I had authorization. KAFFEE From where? JO Downey's closest living relative, Ginny Miller, his aunt on his mother's side. KAFFEE You got authorization from Aunt Ginny? JO I gave her a call like you asked. Very nice woman, we talked for about an hour. KAFFEE You got authorization from Aunt Ginny. JO Perfectly within my province. KAFFEE Does Aunt Ginny have a barn? We can hold the trial there. I can sew the costumes, and maybe his Uncle Goober can be the judge. Jo steps aside and lets KAFFEE got into his car. JO I'm going to Cuba with you tomorrow. KAFFEE And the hits just keep on comin'. HOLD on KAFFEE and Jo. JO smiles. CUT TO: EXT. SIDEWALK NEWSSTAND - DUSK KAFFEE IN HIS CAR He's driving down a Washington street and pulls over at a sidewalk newsstand. He gets out of his car, leaving the lights flashing, and runs up to the newsstand. As he plunks his 35 cents down and picks up a newspaper, he engages in his daily ritual with LUTHER, the newsstand operator. KAFFEE How's it goin', Luther? LUTHER Another day, another dollar, captain. KAFFEE You gotta play 'em as they lay, Luther. LUTHER What comes around, goes around, you know what I'm sayin'. KAFFEE If you can't beat 'em, join 'em. LUTHER Hey, if you've got your health, you got everything. KAFFEE Love makes the world go round. I'll see you tomorrow, Luther. And we CUT TO: INT. SAM'S LIVING ROOM - NIGHT A baby sleeping in a crib pull rack to reveal SAM is standing over the crib. KAFFEE's sitting on a beer. SAM When Nancy gets back, you're my witness. The baby spoke. My daughter said a word. KAFFEE Your daughter made a sound, Sam, I'm not sure it was a word. SAM Oh come on, it was a word. KAFFEE Okay. SAM You heard her. The girl sat here, pointed, and said "Pa". She did. She said "Pa". KAFFEE She was pointing at a doorknob. SAM That's right. Pointing, as if to say, "Pa, look, a doorknob". SAM joins KAFFEE in the living room. KAFFEE Jack Ross came to see me today. He offered me twelve years. SAM That's what you wanted. KAFFEE I know, and I'll... I guess, I mean -- (beat) I'll take it. SAM So? KAFFEE It took albout 45 seconds. He barely put up a fight. SAM (beat) Danny, take the twelve years, it's a gift. KAFFEE finishes off his beer, and stands. KAFFEE You don't believe their story, do you? You think they ought to go to jail for the rest of their lives. SAM I believe every word they said. And I think they ought to go to jail for the rest of their lives. KAFFEE nods and puts down the empty beer bottle. KAFFEE I'll see you tomorrow. Sam opens the front door for him and they stand out on the stoop for a moment. SAM Remember to wear your whites, it's hot down there. KAFFEE I don't like the whites. SAM Nobody likes the whites, but we're going to Cuba in August. You got Dramamine? KAFFEE Dramamine keeps you cool? SAM Dramamine keeps you from throwing up, you get sick when you fly. KAFFEE I get sick when I fly because I'm afraid of crashing into a large mountain, I don't think Dramamine'll help. SAM I've got some oregano, I hear that works pretty good. KAFFEE Yeah, right. KAFFEE starts toward his car, then turns around. KAFFEE (continuing) You know, Ross said the strangest thing to me right before I left. He said the platoon commander Lieutenant Jonathan Kendrick had a meeting with the men and specifically told them not to touch Santiago. SAM So? KAFFEE I never mentioned Kendrick. I don't even know who he is. (beat) What the hell. (beat) I'll see you tomorrow. We hold for a moment on KAFFEE as he walks to his car, then CUT TO: EXT. THE AIRSTRIP AT GUANTANAMO BAY - DAY The whole place, in stark contrast to the Washington Navy Yard, is ready to go to war. Fighter jets line the tarmac. Ground crews re-fuel planes. Hurried activity. A 36 seat Airforce Jet rolls to a stop on the tarmac and a stair unit is brought up. HOWARD, a marine corporal, is waiting by the stairway as the passengers begin to got off. Mostly MARINES, a few SAILORS, a couple of CIVILIANS, and KAFFEE, JO and SAM. KAFFEE and SAM are wearing their summer whites, JO is in khakis. KAFFEE and SAM stare out at what they see: They're not in Kansas anymore. HOWARD shouts over the noise from the planes. HOWARD Lieutenants Kaffee and Weinberg? KAFFEE (shouting) Yeah. JO Commander Galloway. HOWARD I'm Corporal Howard, ma'am, I'm to escort you to the Windward side of the base. JO Thank you. HOWARD I've got some camouflage jackets in the back of the jeep, sirs, I'll have to ask you both to put them on. KAFFEE Camouflage jackets? HOWARD Regulations, sir. We'll be riding pretty close to the fenceline. The Cubans see an officer wearing white, they think it's someone they might wanna take a shot at. KAFFEE turns and glares at SAM. KAFFEE Good call, Sam. CUT TO: EXT. CUBAN ROAD - THE JEEP - DAY Tearing along down the road, and now we see a beautiful expanse of water, maybe 1000 yards across. It's a section of Guantanamo Bay. HOWARD (shouting) We'll just hop on the ferry and be over there in no time. KAFFEE (shouting) Whoa! Hold it! We gotta take a boat?! HOWARD Yes sir, to get to the other side of the bay. KAFFEE Nobody said anything about a boat. HOWARD (shouting) Is there a problem, sir? KAFFEE (shouting) No. No problem. I'm just not that crazy about boats, that's all. JO (shouting) Jesus Christ, Kaffee, you're in the Navy for cryin' out loud! KAFFEE (shouting) Nobody likes her very much. HOWARD (shouting) Yes sir. The jeep drives on and we CUT TO: JESSEP, MARKINSON and KENDRICK are standing as the LAWYERS are led in. JESSEP Nathan Jessep, come on in and siddown. KAFFEE Thank you. I'm Daniel Kaffee, I'm the attorney for Dawson and Downey. This is Joanne Galloway, she's observing and evaluating -- JO (shaking hands) Colonel. JESSEP Pleased to meet you, Commander. KAFFEE Sam Weinberg. He has no responsibility here whatsoever. JESSEP I've asked Captain Markinson and Lt. Kendrick to join us. MARKINSON Lt. Kaffee, I had the pleasure of seeing your father once. I was a teenager and he spoke at my high school. KAFFEE smiles and nods. JESSEP Lionel Kaffee? KAFFEE Yes sir. JESSEP Well what do you know. Son, this man's dad once made a lot of enemies down in your neck of the woods. Jefferson vs. Madison County School District. The folks down there said a little black girl couldn't go to an all white school, Lionel Kaffee said we'll just see about that. How the hell is your dad? KAFFEE He passed away seven years ago, colonel. JESSEP (pause) Well... don't I feel like the fuckin, asshole. KAFFEE Not at all, sir. JESSEP Well, what can we do for you, Danny. KAFFEE Not much at all, sir, I'm afraid. This is really a formality more than anything else. The JAG Corps insists that I interview all the relevant witnesses. JO The JAG Corps can be demanding that way. JESSEP smiles. JESSEP Jonanthan'll take you out and show you what you wanna see, then we can all hook up for lunch, how does that sound? KAFFEE Fine, sir. CUT TO: EXT. THE FENCELINE - DAY A SQUAD OF MARINES jogs by as a jeep carrying KENDRICK and the three LAWYERS cruises down the road. We FOLLOW the jeep. KAFFEE I understand you had a meeting with your men that afternoon. KENDRICK Yes. KAFFEE What'd you guys talk about? KENDRICK I told the men that there was an informer among us. And that despite any desire they might have to seek retribution, Private Santiago was not to be harmed in any way. KAFFEE What time was that meeting? KENDRICK Sixteen-hundred. KAFFEE turns around and looks at SAM. SAM (leaning forward) Four o'clock. CUT TO: INT. THE BARRACKS CORRIDOR - DAY KENDRICK leads the LAWYERS down the corridor to Santiago's room. Two strips of tape which warn DO NOT ENTER - AT ORDER OF THE MILITARY POLICE are crisscrossed over the closed door. They open the door and step under the tape and walk into INT. SANTIAGO'S ROOM - DAY The room is exactly an it was left that night. The un-made bed, the chair knocked over... The LAWYERS look around for a moment. The room is sparse. Kaffee goes to the closet and opens it: A row of uniforms hanging neatly. He thumbs through then for a second, but there's nothing there. He opens the footlocker: Socks, underwear... all folded to marine corp precision... A shaving kit, a couple of photographs, a pad of writing paper and some envelopes... Kaffee closes the footlocker. KAFFEE Sam, somebody should see about getting this stuff to his parents. We don't need it anymore. KENDRICK Actually, the uniforms belong to the marine corps. The LAWYERS take a moment. KAFFEE Lt. Kendrick -- can I call you Jon? KENDRICK No, you may not. KAFFEE (beat) Have I done something to offend you? KENDRICK No, I like all you Navy boys. Every time we've gotta go someplace and fight, you fellas always give us a ride. JO Lt. Kendrick, do you think Santiago was murdered? KENDRICK Commander, I believe in God, and in his son Jesus Christ, and because I do, I can say this: Private Santiago is dead and that's a tragedy. But he's dead because he had no code. He's dead because he had no honor. And God was watching. SAM turns to KAFFEE. SAM How do you feel about that theory? KAFFEE (beat) Sounds good. Let's move on. SAM and KENDRICK walk out the door. JO stops KAFFEE. JO You planning on doing any investigating or are you just gonna take the guided tour? KAFFEE (beat) I'm pacing myself. CUT TO: INT. THE OFFICERS CLUB - DAY JESSEP, MARKINSON, KENDRICK and the LAWYERS are seated at a table in the corner. Stewards clear the lunch dishes and pour coffee. Jessep is finishing a story. JESSEP ...And they spent the next three hours running around, looking for Americans to surrender to. JESSEP laughs. KENDRICK joins him. SAM and KAFFEE force a laugh. MARKINSON forces a smile. JO remains silent. JESSEP (continuing; to the STEWARDS) That was delicious, men, thank you. STEWARD Our pleasure, sir. KAFFEE Colonel just need to ask you a couple of questions about August 6th. JESSEP Shoot. KAFFEE On the morning of the sixth, you were contacted by an NIS angent who said that Santiago had tipped him off to an illegal fenceline shooting. JESSEP Yes. KAFFEE Santiago was gonna reveal the person's name in exchange for a transfer. An I getting this right? JESSEP Yes. KAFFEE If you feel there are any details that I'm missing, you should free to speak up. JESSEP's not quite sure what to say to this Navy Lawyer Lieutenant-Smartass guy who just gave him permission to speak freely on his own base. JESSEP Thank you. KAFFEE Now it was at this point that you called Captain Markinson and Lt. Kendrick into your office? JESSEP Yes. KAFFEE And what happened then? JESSEP We agreed that for his own safety, Santiago should be transferred off the base. Here's something else KAFFEE didn't know. Neither did Jo. SAM jots something down on a small notepad. MARKINSON doesn't flinch. KAFFEE Santiago was set to be transferred? JESSEP On the first available flight to the states. Six the next morning. Three hours too late as it turned out. KAFFEE nods. KAFFEE Yeah. There's silence for a moment. KAFFEE takes a sip of his coffee. Then drains the cup and puts it down. KAFFEE (continuing) Alright, that's all I have. Thanks very much for your time. KENDRICK The corporal's got the jeep outside, he'll take you back to the airstrip. KAFFEE (standing) Thank you. JO Wait a minute, I've got some questions. KAFFEE No you don't. JO Yes I do. KAFFEE No you don't. JO Colonel, on the morning that Santiago died, did you meet with Doctor Stone between three and five? KAFFEE Jo -- JESSEP Of course I met with the doctor. One of my men was dead. KAFFEE (to JO) See? The man was dead. Let's go. JO (to JESSEP) I was wondering if you've ever heard the term Code Red. KAFFEE Jo -- JESSEP I've heard the term, yes. JO Colonel, this past February, you received a cautionary memo from the Naval Investigative Service, warning that the practice of enlisted men disciplining their own wasn't to be condoned by officers. JESSEP I submit to you that whoever wrote that memo has never served on the working end of a Soviet-made Cuban Ml-Al6 Assault Rifle. However, the directive having come from the NIS, I gave it its due attention. What's your point, Jo? KAFFEE She has no point. She often has no point. It's part of her charm. We're outta here. Thank you. JO My point is that I think code reds still go on down here. Do Code Reds still happen on this base, colonel? KAFFEE Jo, the colonel doesn't need to answer that. JO Yes he does. KAFFEE No, he really doesn't. JO Yeah, he really does. Colonel? JESSEP You know it just hit me. She outranks you, Danny. KAFFEE Yes sir. JESSEP I want to tell you something Danny and listen up 'cause I mean this: You're the luckiest man in the world. There is, believe me gentlemen, nothing sexier on earth than a woman you have to salute in the morning. Promote 'em all I say. JO's not upset. JO's not mad. But she's gonna ask her question 'til she gets an answer. JO Colonel, the practice of code Reds is still condoned by officers on this base, isn't it? JESSEP You see my problem is, of course, that I'm a Colonel. I'll just have to keep taking cold showers 'til they elect some gal President. JO I need an answer to my question, sir. JESSEP Take caution in your tone, Commander. I'm a fair guy, but this fuckin' heat's making me absolutely crazy. You want to know about code reds? On the record I tell you that I discourage the practice in accordance with the NIS directive. Off the record I tell you that it's an invaluable part of close infantry training, and if it happens to go on without my knowledge, so be it. I run my base how I run my base. You want to investigate me, roll the dice and take your chances. I eat breakfast 80 yards away from 4000 Cubans who are trained to kill me. So don't for one second think you're gonna come down here, flash a badge, and make me nervous. A moment of tense silence before -- KAFFEE Let's go. Colonel, I'll just need a copy of Santiago's transfer order. JESSEP What's that? KAFFEE Santiago's transfer order. You guys have paper work on that kind of thing, I just need it for the file. JESSEP For the file. KAFFEE Yeah. JESSEP (pause) Of course you can have a copy of the transfer order. For the file. I'm here to help anyway I can. KAFFEE Thank you. JESSEP You believe that, don't you? Danny? That I'm here to help anyway I can? KAFFEE Of course. JESSEP The corporal'll run you by Ordinance on your way out to the airstrip. You can have all the transfer orders you want. KAFFEE (to JO and SAM) Let's go. The LAWYERS start to leave. JESSEP But you have to ask me nicely. KAFFEE stops. Turns around. Sam and JO stop and turn. KAFFEE I beg your pardon? JESSEP You have to ask me nicely. You see, Danny, I can deal with the bullets and the bombs and the blood. I can deal with the heat and the stress and the fear. I don't want money and I don't want medals. What I want is for you to stand there in that faggoty white uniform, and with your Harvard mouth, extend me some fuckin' courtesy. You gotta ask me nicely. KAFFEE and JESSEP are frozen. Everyone'staring at Kaffee; The OFFICERS at their tables... KENDRICK... SAM... MARKINSON... JO... KAFFEE makes his decision. KAFFEE Colonel Jessep... if it's not too much trouble, I'd like a copy of the transfer order. Sir. JESSEP smiles. JESSEP No problem. HOLD for a moment. JO's very disappointed. JESSEP stands there and watches the LAWYERS as they turn and leave the Officer's Club. JESSEP (continuing) I hate casualties, Matthew. There are casualties even in victory. A marine smothers a grenade and saves his platoon, that marine's a hero. The foundation of the unit, the fabric of this base, the spirit of the Corps, they are things worth fighting for. MARKINSON looks at the ground. JESSEP (continuing) Dawson and Downey, they don't know it, but they're smothering a grenade. MARKINSON looks up as we CUT TO: EXT. ANDREWS AIRFORCE BASE - DUSK As a plane touches down on the runway. It's dusk in Washington and CUT TO: EXT. KAFFEE'S APARTMENT - DAY A little one-bedroom. Just the essential furniture, barely even that. KAFFEE's sitting and watching a baseball came on t.v. He's holding a copy of The Baseball Encyclopedia, normally his favorite reading material, but right now he's having trouble keeping his mind in it. He's holding a baseball bat and fiddling with it. The remnants of a pizza and Yoo-Hoo dinner sit next to him. His white uniform in a pile in the corner. There's a BUZZ at the door. KAFFEE's not expecting anyone. He goes to the door. KAFFEE Who is it? JO (O.S.) It's me. KAFFEE opens the door and JO walks in. KAFFEE I've really missed you, Jo. I was just saying to myself, "It's been almost three hours since I last saw -- " JO Markinson resigned his commission. KAFFEE (pause) When? JO This afternoon. Sometime after we left. KAFFEE I'll talk to him in the morning. JO I already tried, I can't find him. KAFFEE You tried? Joanne, you're coming dangerously close to the textbook definition of interfering with a government investigation. JO hands KAFFEE the file she's been holding. JO I'm Louden Downey's attorney. KAFFEE's stunned. He opens the file and begins to read. JO (continuing) Aunt Ginny. She said she feels like she's known me for years. I suggested that she might feel more comfortable if I were directly involved with the case. She had Louden sign the papers about an hour ago. KAFFEE looks up. Still too stunned to say anything. Then finally... KAFFEE I suppose it's way too much to hope that you're just making this up to bother me. JO Don't worry, I'm not gonna make a motion for separation, you're still lead counsel. KAFFEE hands her back the file. KAFFEE Splendid. JO I think Kendrick ordered the Code Red. (beat) So do you. CUT TO: INT. A HOLDING ROOM IN THE BRIG - NIGHT DAWSON and DOWNEY come to attention as KAFFEE and JO are led in. DAWSON Officer on deck, ten hut. KAFFEE starts in immediately. KAFFEE Did Kendrick order the code red? DAWSON Sir? KAFFEE Don't say sir like I just asked you if you cleaned the latrine. You heard what I said. Did Lt. Kendrick order you guys to give Santiago a code red? DAWSON Yes sir. KAFFEE (to Downey) Did he? DOWNEY Yes sir. KAFFEE You mind telling me why the hell you never mentioned this before? DAWSON You didn't ask us, sir. KAFFEE Cutie-pie shit's not gonna win you a place in my heart, corporal, I get paid no matter how much time you spend in jail. DAWSON Yes

jag

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

was damn funny. Jo moves close to KAFFEE to say this with a degree of confidentiality. JO I do know you. Daniel AlliStair Kaffee, born June 8th, 1964 at Boston Mercy Hospital. Your father's Lionel Kaffee, former Navy Judge Advocate and Attorney General, of the United States, died 1985. You went to Harvard Law on a Navy scholarship, probably because that's what your father wanted you to do, and now you're just treading water for the three years you've gotta serve in the JAG Corps, just kinda layin' low til you can get out and get a real job. And if that's the situation, that's fine, I won't tell anyone. But my feeling is that if this case is handled in the same fast-food, slick-ass, Persian Bazaar manner with which you seem to handle everything else, something's gonna get missed. And I wouldn't be doing my job if I allowed Dawson and Downey to spend any more time in prison than absolutely necessary, because their attorney had pre- determined the path of least resistance. KAFFEE can't help but be impressed by that speech. KAFFEE Wow. (beat) I'm sexually aroused, Commander. JO I don't think your clients murdered anybody. KAFFEE What are you basing this on? JO There was no intent. KAFFEE The doctor's report says that Santiago died of asphyxiation brought on by acute lactic acidosis, and that the nature of the acidosis strongly suggests poisoning. (beat) Now, I don't know what any of that means, but it sounds pretty bad. JO Santiago died at one a.m. At three the doctor was unable to determine the cause of death, but two hours later he said it was poison. KAFFEE Oh, now I see what you're saying. It had to be Professor Plum in the library with the candlestick. JO I'm gonna speak to your supervisor. KAFFEE Okay. You go straight up Pennsylvania Avenue. It's a big white house with pillars in front. JO Thank you. KAFFEE I don't think you'll have much luck, though. I was assigned by Division, remember? Somebody over there thinks I'm a good lawyer. So while I appreciate your interest and admire your enthusiasm, I think I can pretty much handle things myself. JO Do you know what a code red is? KAFFEE doesn't, but he doesn't say anything. JO (continuing) What a pity. CUT TO: INT. THE BRIG - DAY And an M.P. is leading KAFFEE and SAM down to DAWSON and DOWNEY's cell. M.P. Officer on deck, ten-hut. DAWSON and DOWNEY come to attention. Through the following, the M.P. will unlock the call door and let the lawyers in. DAWSON Sir, Lance Corporal Harold W. Dawson, sir. Rifle Security Company Windward, Second Platoon, Delta. KAFFEE Someone hasn't been working and playing well with others, Harold. DAWSON Sir, yes sir! DOWNEY Sir, PFC Louden Downey. KAFFEE I'm Daniel Kaffee, this is Sam Weinerg, you can sitdown. DAWSON and DOWNEY aren't too comfortable sitting in the presence of officers, but they do as they're told. KAFFEE's pulled out some documents, SAM's sitting on one of the cots taking notes. KAFFEE (continuing; to DAWSON) Is this your signature? DAWSON Yes sir. KAFFEE You don't have to call me sir. (to DOWNEY) Is this your signature? DOWNEY Sir, yes sir. KAFFEE And you certainly don't have to do it twice in one sentence. Harold, what's a Code Red? DAWSON Sir, a Code Red is a disciplinary engagement. KAFFEE What does that mean, exactly? DAWSON Sir, a marine falls out of line, it's up to the men in his unit to get him back on track. KAFFEE What's a garden variety Code Red? DAWSON Sir? KAFFEE Harold, you say sir and I turn around and look for my father. Danny, Daniel, Kaffee. Garden variety; typical. What's a basic Code Red? DAWSON Sir, a marine has refused to bathe on a regular basis. The men in his squad would give him a G.I. shower. KAFFEE What's that? DAWSON Scrub brushes, brillo pads, steel wool... SAM Beautiful. KAFFEE Was the attack on Santiago a Code Red? DAWSON Yes sir. KAFFEE (to DOWNEY) Do you ever talk? DAWSON Sir, Private Downey will answer any direct questions you ask him. KAFFEE Swell. Private Downey, the rag you stuffed in Santiago's mouth, was there poison on it? DOWNEY No sir. KAFFEE Silver polish, turpentine, anti- freeze... DOWNEY No sir. We were gonna shave his head, sir. KAFFEE When all of a sudden...? DOWNEY We saw blood drippinq out of his mouth. Then we pulled the tape off, and there was blood all down his face, sir. That's when Corporal Dawson called the ambulance. KAFFEE tries not to make too big a deal out of this last piece of news. KAFFEE (to DAWSON) Did anyone see you call the ambulance? DAWSON No sir. KAFFEE Were you there when the ambulance got there? DAWSON Yes sir, that's when we were taken under arrest. KAFFEE kinda strolls to the corner of the cell to think for a moment. SAM (to DAWSON) On the night of August 2nd, did you fire a shot across the fenceline into Cuba? DAWSON Yes sir. SAM Why? DAWSON My mirror engaged, sir. KAFFEE (to SAM) His mirror engaged? SAM For each American sentry post there's a Cuban counterpart. They're called mirrors. The corporal's claiming that his mirror was about to fire at him. KAFFEE Santiago's letter to the NIS said you fired illegally. He's saying that the guy, the mirror, he never made a move. DAWSON says nothing. KAFFEE (continuing) Oh, Harold? SAM is staring at DAWSON. KAFFEE (continuing) You see what I'm getting at? If Santiago didn't have anything on you, then why did you give him a Code Red? DAWSON Because he broke the chain of command, sir. KAFFEE He what? DAWSON He went outside his unit, sir. If he had a problem, he should've spoken to me, sir. Then his Sergeant, then Company Commander, then -- KAFFEE Yeah, yeah, alright. Harold, did you assault Santiago with the intent of killing him? DAWSON No sir. KAFFEE What was your intent? DAWSON To train him, sir. KAFFEE Train him to do what? DAWSON Train him to think of his unit before himself. To respect the code. SAM What's the code? DAWSON Unit Corps God Country. SAM I beg your pardon? DAWSON Unit Corps God Country, sir. KAFFEE The Goverrment of the United States wants to charge you two with murder. You want me to go to the prosecutor with unit, corps, god, country? DAWSON stares at KAFFEE. DAWSON That's our code, sir. KAFFEE takes a long moment. He picks up his briefcase and he and SAM move to the door. KAFFEE We'll be back. You guys need anything? Books paper, cigarettes, a ham sandwich? DAWSON Sir. No thank you. Sir. KAFFEE smiles at DAWSON. KAFFEE Harold, I think there's a concept you better start warming up to. DAWSON Sir? KAFFEE I'm the only friend you've got. And as KAFFEE and SAM walk out the open cell door, DAWSON and DOWNEY come to attention and snap a salute. They hold the salute until KAFFEE and SAM are well out of sight, and we CUT TO: INT. KAFFEE'S OFFICE - DAY He's packing up stuff into his briefcase at the end of the work day. Lt. JACK ROSS, a marine lawyer maybe two years older than Kaffee, opens the door and walks in.. ROSS Dan Kaffee. KAFFEE Sailin' Jack Ross. ROSS Welcome to the big time. KAFFEE You think so? ROSS I hope for Dawson and Downey's sake you practice law better than you play softball. KAFFEE Unfortunately for Dawson and Downey, I don't do anything better than I play softball. What are we lookin' at? ROSS They plead guilty to manslaughter, I'll drop the conspiracy and the conduct unbecoming. 20 years, they'll be home in half that time. KAFFEE I want twelve. ROSS Can't do it. KAFFEE They called the ambulance, Jack. ROSS I don't care if they called the Avon Lady, they killed a marine. KAFFEE The rag was tested for poison. The autopsy, lab report, even the initial E.R. and C.O.D. reports. They all say the same thing: Maybe, maybe not. ROSS The Chief of Internal Medicine at the Guantanamo Bay Naval hospital says he's sure. KAFFEE What do you know about Code Reds? ROSS smiles and shakes his head. ROSS Oh man. He closes the office door. ROSS (continuing) Are we off the record? KAFFEE You tell me. ROSS (pause) I'm gonna give you the twelve years, but before you go getting yourself into trouble tomorrow, you should know this: The platoon commander Lt. Jonathan Kendrick, had a meeting with the men. And he specifically told them not to touch Santiago. KAFFEE holds for a moment. Dawson and Downey neglected to mention this... He packs up his briefcase and cleats. KAFFEE I'll talk to you when I get back. ROSS Hey, we got a little four-on-four going tomorrow night. When does your plane get in? CUT TO: EXT. THE PARKING LOT - DUSK It's dusk and people on the base are going home from work. We can see the flag being lowered in the background. KAFFEE's walking toward his car. JO intercepts him and starts walking along with him. JO Hi there. KAFFEE Any luck getting me replaced? JO Is there anyone in this command that you don't either drink or play softball with? KAFFEE Commander -- JO Listen, I came to make peace. We started off on the wrong foot. What do you say? Friends? KAFFEE Look, I don't -- JO By the way, I brought Downey some comic books he was asking for. The kid, Kaffee, I swear, he doesn't know where he is, he doesn't even know why he's been arrested. KAFFEE Commander -- JO You can call me Joanne. KAFFEE Joanne -- JO or Jo. KAFFEE Jo? JO Yes. KAFFEE Jo, if you ever speak to a client of mine again without my permission, I'll have you disbarred. Friends? JO I had authorization. KAFFEE From where? JO Downey's closest living relative, Ginny Miller, his aunt on his mother's side. KAFFEE You got authorization from Aunt Ginny? JO I gave her a call like you asked. Very nice woman, we talked for about an hour. KAFFEE You got authorization from Aunt Ginny. JO Perfectly within my province. KAFFEE Does Aunt Ginny have a barn? We can hold the trial there. I can sew the costumes, and maybe his Uncle Goober can be the judge. Jo steps aside and lets KAFFEE got into his car. JO I'm going to Cuba with you tomorrow. KAFFEE And the hits just keep on comin'. HOLD on KAFFEE and Jo. JO smiles. CUT TO: EXT. SIDEWALK NEWSSTAND - DUSK KAFFEE IN HIS CAR He's driving down a Washington street and pulls over at a sidewalk newsstand. He gets out of his car, leaving the lights flashing, and runs up to the newsstand. As he plunks his 35 cents down and picks up a newspaper, he engages in his daily ritual with LUTHER, the newsstand operator. KAFFEE How's it goin', Luther? LUTHER Another day, another dollar, captain. KAFFEE You gotta play 'em as they lay, Luther. LUTHER What comes around, goes around, you know what I'm sayin'. KAFFEE If you can't beat 'em, join 'em. LUTHER Hey, if you've got your health, you got everything. KAFFEE Love makes the world go round. I'll see you tomorrow, Luther. And we CUT TO: INT. SAM'S LIVING ROOM - NIGHT A baby sleeping in a crib pull rack to reveal SAM is standing over the crib. KAFFEE's sitting on a beer. SAM When Nancy gets back, you're my witness. The baby spoke. My daughter said a word. KAFFEE Your daughter made a sound, Sam, I'm not sure it was a word. SAM Oh come on, it was a word. KAFFEE Okay. SAM You heard her. The girl sat here, pointed, and said "Pa". She did. She said "Pa". KAFFEE She was pointing at a doorknob. SAM That's right. Pointing, as if to say, "Pa, look, a doorknob". SAM joins KAFFEE in the living room. KAFFEE Jack Ross came to see me today. He offered me twelve years. SAM That's what you wanted. KAFFEE I know, and I'll... I guess, I mean -- (beat) I'll take it. SAM So? KAFFEE It took albout 45 seconds. He barely put up a fight. SAM (beat) Danny, take the twelve years, it's a gift. KAFFEE finishes off his beer, and stands. KAFFEE You don't believe their story, do you? You think they ought to go to jail for the rest of their lives. SAM I believe every word they said. And I think they ought to go to jail for the rest of their lives. KAFFEE nods and puts down the empty beer bottle. KAFFEE I'll see you tomorrow. Sam opens the front door for him and they stand out on the stoop for a moment. SAM Remember to wear your whites, it's hot down there. KAFFEE I don't like the whites. SAM Nobody likes the whites, but we're going to Cuba in August. You got Dramamine? KAFFEE Dramamine keeps you cool? SAM Dramamine keeps you from throwing up, you get sick when you fly. KAFFEE I get sick when I fly because I'm afraid of crashing into a large mountain, I don't think Dramamine'll help. SAM I've got some oregano, I hear that works pretty good. KAFFEE Yeah, right. KAFFEE starts toward his car, then turns around. KAFFEE (continuing) You know, Ross said the strangest thing to me right before I left. He said the platoon commander Lieutenant Jonathan Kendrick had a meeting with the men and specifically told them not to touch Santiago. SAM So? KAFFEE I never mentioned Kendrick. I don't even know who he is. (beat) What the hell. (beat) I'll see you tomorrow. We hold for a moment on KAFFEE as he walks to his car, then CUT TO: EXT. THE AIRSTRIP AT GUANTANAMO BAY - DAY The whole place, in stark contrast to the Washington Navy Yard, is ready to go to war. Fighter jets line the tarmac. Ground crews re-fuel planes. Hurried activity. A 36 seat Airforce Jet rolls to a stop on the tarmac and a stair unit is brought up. HOWARD, a marine corporal, is waiting by the stairway as the passengers begin to got off. Mostly MARINES, a few SAILORS, a couple of CIVILIANS, and KAFFEE, JO and SAM. KAFFEE and SAM are wearing their summer whites, JO is in khakis. KAFFEE and SAM stare out at what they see: They're not in Kansas anymore. HOWARD shouts over the noise from the planes. HOWARD Lieutenants Kaffee and Weinberg? KAFFEE (shouting) Yeah. JO Commander Galloway. HOWARD I'm Corporal Howard, ma'am, I'm to escort you to the Windward side of the base. JO Thank you. HOWARD I've got some camouflage jackets in the back of the jeep, sirs, I'll have to ask you both to put them on. KAFFEE Camouflage jackets? HOWARD Regulations, sir. We'll be riding pretty close to the fenceline. The Cubans see an officer wearing white, they think it's someone they might wanna take a shot at. KAFFEE turns and glares at SAM. KAFFEE Good call, Sam. CUT TO: EXT. CUBAN ROAD - THE JEEP - DAY Tearing along down the road, and now we see a beautiful expanse of water, maybe 1000 yards across. It's a section of Guantanamo Bay. HOWARD (shouting) We'll just hop on the ferry and be over there in no time. KAFFEE (shouting) Whoa! Hold it! We gotta take a boat?! HOWARD Yes sir, to get to the other side of the bay. KAFFEE Nobody said anything about a boat. HOWARD (shouting) Is there a problem, sir? KAFFEE (shouting) No. No problem. I'm just not that crazy about boats, that's all. JO (shouting) Jesus Christ, Kaffee, you're in the Navy for cryin' out loud! KAFFEE (shouting) Nobody likes her very much. HOWARD (shouting) Yes sir. The jeep drives on and we CUT TO: JESSEP, MARKINSON and KENDRICK are standing as the LAWYERS are led in. JESSEP Nathan Jessep, come on in and siddown. KAFFEE Thank you. I'm Daniel Kaffee, I'm the attorney for Dawson and Downey. This is Joanne Galloway, she's observing and evaluating -- JO (shaking hands) Colonel. JESSEP Pleased to meet you, Commander. KAFFEE Sam Weinberg. He has no responsibility here whatsoever. JESSEP I've asked Captain Markinson and Lt. Kendrick to join us. MARKINSON Lt. Kaffee, I had the pleasure of seeing your father once. I was a teenager and he spoke at my high school. KAFFEE smiles and nods. JESSEP Lionel Kaffee? KAFFEE Yes sir. JESSEP Well what do you know. Son, this man's dad once made a lot of enemies down in your neck of the woods. Jefferson vs. Madison County School District. The folks down there said a little black girl couldn't go to an all white school, Lionel Kaffee said we'll just see about that. How the hell is your dad? KAFFEE He passed away seven years ago, colonel. JESSEP (pause) Well... don't I feel like the fuckin, asshole. KAFFEE Not at all, sir. JESSEP Well, what can we do for you, Danny. KAFFEE Not much at all, sir, I'm afraid. This is really a formality more than anything else. The JAG Corps insists that I interview all the relevant witnesses. JO The JAG Corps can be demanding that way. JESSEP smiles. JESSEP Jonanthan'll take you out and show you what you wanna see, then we can all hook up for lunch, how does that sound? KAFFEE Fine, sir. CUT TO: EXT. THE FENCELINE - DAY A SQUAD OF MARINES jogs by as a jeep carrying KENDRICK and the three LAWYERS cruises down the road. We FOLLOW the jeep. KAFFEE I understand you had a meeting with your men that afternoon. KENDRICK Yes. KAFFEE What'd you guys talk about? KENDRICK I told the men that there was an informer among us. And that despite any desire they might have to seek retribution, Private Santiago was not to be harmed in any way. KAFFEE What time was that meeting? KENDRICK Sixteen-hundred. KAFFEE turns around and looks at SAM. SAM (leaning forward) Four o'clock. CUT TO: INT. THE BARRACKS CORRIDOR - DAY KENDRICK leads the LAWYERS down the corridor to Santiago's room. Two strips of tape which warn DO NOT ENTER - AT ORDER OF THE MILITARY POLICE are crisscrossed over the closed door. They open the door and step under the tape and walk into INT. SANTIAGO'S ROOM - DAY The room is exactly an it was left that night. The un-made bed, the chair knocked over... The LAWYERS look around for a moment. The room is sparse. Kaffee goes to the closet and opens it: A row of uniforms hanging neatly. He thumbs through then for a second, but there's nothing there. He opens the footlocker: Socks, underwear... all folded to marine corp precision... A shaving kit, a couple of photographs, a pad of writing paper and some envelopes... Kaffee closes the footlocker. KAFFEE Sam, somebody should see about getting this stuff to his parents. We don't need it anymore. KENDRICK Actually, the uniforms belong to the marine corps. The LAWYERS take a moment. KAFFEE Lt. Kendrick -- can I call you Jon? KENDRICK No, you may not. KAFFEE (beat) Have I done something to offend you? KENDRICK No, I like all you Navy boys. Every time we've gotta go someplace and fight, you fellas always give us a ride. JO Lt. Kendrick, do you think Santiago was murdered? KENDRICK Commander, I believe in God, and in his son Jesus Christ, and because I do, I can say this: Private Santiago is dead and that's a tragedy. But he's dead because he had no code. He's dead because he had no honor. And God was watching. SAM turns to KAFFEE. SAM How do you feel about that theory? KAFFEE (beat) Sounds good. Let's move on. SAM and KENDRICK walk out the door. JO stops KAFFEE. JO You planning on doing any investigating or are you just gonna take the guided tour? KAFFEE (beat) I'm pacing myself. CUT TO: INT. THE OFFICERS CLUB - DAY JESSEP, MARKINSON, KENDRICK and the LAWYERS are seated at a table in the corner. Stewards clear the lunch dishes and pour coffee. Jessep is finishing a story. JESSEP ...And they spent the next three hours running around, looking for Americans to surrender to. JESSEP laughs. KENDRICK joins him. SAM and KAFFEE force a laugh. MARKINSON forces a smile. JO remains silent. JESSEP (continuing; to the STEWARDS) That was delicious, men, thank you. STEWARD Our pleasure, sir. KAFFEE Colonel just need to ask you a couple of questions about August 6th. JESSEP Shoot. KAFFEE On the morning of the sixth, you were contacted by an NIS angent who said that Santiago had tipped him off to an illegal fenceline shooting. JESSEP Yes. KAFFEE Santiago was gonna reveal the person's name in exchange for a transfer. An I getting this right? JESSEP Yes. KAFFEE If you feel there are any details that I'm missing, you should free to speak up. JESSEP's not quite sure what to say to this Navy Lawyer Lieutenant-Smartass guy who just gave him permission to speak freely on his own base. JESSEP Thank you. KAFFEE Now it was at this point that you called Captain Markinson and Lt. Kendrick into your office? JESSEP Yes. KAFFEE And what happened then? JESSEP We agreed that for his own safety, Santiago should be transferred off the base. Here's something else KAFFEE didn't know. Neither did Jo. SAM jots something down on a small notepad. MARKINSON doesn't flinch. KAFFEE Santiago was set to be transferred? JESSEP On the first available flight to the states. Six the next morning. Three hours too late as it turned out. KAFFEE nods. KAFFEE Yeah. There's silence for a moment. KAFFEE takes a sip of his coffee. Then drains the cup and puts it down. KAFFEE (continuing) Alright, that's all I have. Thanks very much for your time. KENDRICK The corporal's got the jeep outside, he'll take you back to the airstrip. KAFFEE (standing) Thank you. JO Wait a minute, I've got some questions. KAFFEE No you don't. JO Yes I do. KAFFEE No you don't. JO Colonel, on the morning that Santiago died, did you meet with Doctor Stone between three and five? KAFFEE Jo -- JESSEP Of course I met with the doctor. One of my men was dead. KAFFEE (to JO) See? The man was dead. Let's go. JO (to JESSEP) I was wondering if you've ever heard the term Code Red. KAFFEE Jo -- JESSEP I've heard the term, yes. JO Colonel, this past February, you received a cautionary memo from the Naval Investigative Service, warning that the practice of enlisted men disciplining their own wasn't to be condoned by officers. JESSEP I submit to you that whoever wrote that memo has never served on the working end of a Soviet-made Cuban Ml-Al6 Assault Rifle. However, the directive having come from the NIS, I gave it its due attention. What's your point, Jo? KAFFEE She has no point. She often has no point. It's part of her charm. We're outta here. Thank you. JO My point is that I think code reds still go on down here. Do Code Reds still happen on this base, colonel? KAFFEE Jo, the colonel doesn't need to answer that. JO Yes he does. KAFFEE No, he really doesn't. JO Yeah, he really does. Colonel? JESSEP You know it just hit me. She outranks you, Danny. KAFFEE Yes sir. JESSEP I want to tell you something Danny and listen up 'cause I mean this: You're the luckiest man in the world. There is, believe me gentlemen, nothing sexier on earth than a woman you have to salute in the morning. Promote 'em all I say. JO's not upset. JO's not mad. But she's gonna ask her question 'til she gets an answer. JO Colonel, the practice of code Reds is still condoned by officers on this base, isn't it? JESSEP You see my problem is, of course, that I'm a Colonel. I'll just have to keep taking cold showers 'til they elect some gal President. JO I need an answer to my question, sir. JESSEP Take caution in your tone, Commander. I'm a fair guy, but this fuckin' heat's making me absolutely crazy. You want to know about code reds? On the record I tell you that I discourage the practice in accordance with the NIS directive. Off the record I tell you that it's an invaluable part of close infantry training, and if it happens to go on without my knowledge, so be it. I run my base how I run my base. You want to investigate me, roll the dice and take your chances. I eat breakfast 80 yards away from 4000 Cubans who are trained to kill me. So don't for one second think you're gonna come down here, flash a badge, and make me nervous. A moment of tense silence before -- KAFFEE Let's go. Colonel, I'll just need a copy of Santiago's transfer order. JESSEP What's that? KAFFEE Santiago's transfer order. You guys have paper work on that kind of thing, I just need it for the file. JESSEP For the file. KAFFEE Yeah. JESSEP (pause) Of course you can have a copy of the transfer order. For the file. I'm here to help anyway I can. KAFFEE Thank you. JESSEP You believe that, don't you? Danny? That I'm here to help anyway I can? KAFFEE Of course. JESSEP The corporal'll run you by Ordinance on your way out to the airstrip. You can have all the transfer orders you want. KAFFEE (to JO and SAM) Let's go. The LAWYERS start to leave. JESSEP But you have to ask me nicely. KAFFEE stops. Turns around. Sam and JO stop and turn. KAFFEE I beg your pardon? JESSEP You have to ask me nicely. You see, Danny, I can deal with the bullets and the bombs and the blood. I can deal with the heat and the stress and the fear. I don't want money and I don't want medals. What I want is for you to stand there in that faggoty white uniform, and with your Harvard mouth, extend me some fuckin' courtesy. You gotta ask me nicely. KAFFEE and JESSEP are frozen. Everyone'staring at Kaffee; The OFFICERS at their tables... KENDRICK... SAM... MARKINSON... JO... KAFFEE makes his decision. KAFFEE Colonel Jessep... if it's not too much trouble, I'd like a copy of the transfer order. Sir. JESSEP smiles. JESSEP No problem. HOLD for a moment. JO's very disappointed. JESSEP stands there and watches the LAWYERS as they turn and leave the Officer's Club. JESSEP (continuing) I hate casualties, Matthew. There are casualties even in victory. A marine smothers a grenade and saves his platoon, that marine's a hero. The foundation of the unit, the fabric of this base, the spirit of the Corps, they are things worth fighting for. MARKINSON looks at the ground. JESSEP (continuing) Dawson and Downey, they don't know it, but they're smothering a grenade. MARKINSON looks up as we CUT TO: EXT. ANDREWS AIRFORCE BASE - DUSK As a plane touches down on the runway. It's dusk in Washington and CUT TO: EXT. KAFFEE'S APARTMENT - DAY A little one-bedroom. Just the essential furniture, barely even that. KAFFEE's sitting and watching a baseball came on t.v. He's holding a copy of The Baseball Encyclopedia, normally his favorite reading material, but right now he's having trouble keeping his mind in it. He's holding a baseball bat and fiddling with it. The remnants of a pizza and Yoo-Hoo dinner sit next to him. His white uniform in a pile in the corner. There's a BUZZ at the door. KAFFEE's not expecting anyone. He goes to the door. KAFFEE Who is it? JO (O.S.) It's me. KAFFEE opens the door and JO walks in. KAFFEE I've really missed you, Jo. I was just saying to myself, "It's been almost three hours since I last saw -- " JO Markinson resigned his commission. KAFFEE (pause) When? JO This afternoon. Sometime after we left. KAFFEE I'll talk to him in the morning. JO I already tried, I can't find him. KAFFEE You tried? Joanne, you're coming dangerously close to the textbook definition of interfering with a government investigation. JO hands KAFFEE the file she's been holding. JO I'm Louden Downey's attorney. KAFFEE's stunned. He opens the file and begins to read. JO (continuing) Aunt Ginny. She said she feels like she's known me for years. I suggested that she might feel more comfortable if I were directly involved with the case. She had Louden sign the papers about an hour ago. KAFFEE looks up. Still too stunned to say anything. Then finally... KAFFEE I suppose it's way too much to hope that you're just making this up to bother me. JO Don't worry, I'm not gonna make a motion for separation, you're still lead counsel. KAFFEE hands her back the file. KAFFEE Splendid. JO I think Kendrick ordered the Code Red. (beat) So do you. CUT TO: INT. A HOLDING ROOM IN THE BRIG - NIGHT DAWSON and DOWNEY come to attention as KAFFEE and JO are led in. DAWSON Officer on deck, ten hut. KAFFEE starts in immediately. KAFFEE Did Kendrick order the code red? DAWSON Sir? KAFFEE Don't say sir like I just asked you if you cleaned the latrine. You heard what I said. Did Lt. Kendrick order you guys to give Santiago a code red? DAWSON Yes sir. KAFFEE (to Downey) Did he? DOWNEY Yes sir. KAFFEE You mind telling me why the hell you never mentioned this before? DAWSON You didn't ask us, sir. KAFFEE Cutie-pie shit's not gonna win you a place in my heart, corporal, I get paid no matter how much time you spend in jail. DAWSON Yes

even

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