SCENE II

_The Agricultural Hall in Islington, crowded with spectators. In the arena a throne, with a boxing ring before it. A balcony above on the right_, _occupied by persons of fashion_: _among others_, LYDIA _and_ LORD WORTHINGTON.

_Flourish._ _Enter_ LUCIAN _and_ CETEWAYO, _with Chiefs in attendance_.

CETEWAYO. Is this the Hall of Husbandmen?

LUCIAN. It is.

CETEWAYO. Are these anaemic dogs the English people?

LUCIAN. Mislike us not for our complexions, The pallid liveries of the pall of smoke Belched by the mighty chimneys of our factories, And by the million patent kitchen ranges Of happy English homes.

CETEWAYO. When first I came I deemed those chimneys the fuliginous altars Of some infernal god. I now perceive The English dare not look upon the sky. They are moles and owls: they call upon the soot To cover them.

LUCIAN. You cannot understand The greatness of this people, Cetewayo. You are a savage, reasoning like a child. Each pallid English face conceals a brain Whose powers are proven in the works of Newton And in the plays of the immortal Shakespear. There is not one of all the thousands here But, if you placed him naked in the desert, Would presently construct a steam engine, And lay a cable t' th' Antipodes.

CETEWAYO. Have I been brought a million miles by sea To learn how men can lie! Know, Father Webber, Men become civilized through twin diseases, Terror and Greed to wit: these two conjoined Become the grisly parents of Invention. Why does the trembling white with frantic toil Of hand and brain produce the magic gun That slays a mile off, whilst the manly Zulu Dares look his foe i' the face; fights foot to foot; Lives in the present; drains the Here and Now; Makes life a long reality, and death A moment only! whilst your Englishman Glares on his burning candle's winding-sheets, Counting the steps of his approaching doom. And in the murky corners ever sees Two horrid shadows, Death and Poverty: In the which anguish an unnatural edge Comes on his frighted brain, which straight devises Strange frauds by which to filch unearned gold, Mad crafts by which to slay unfaced foes, Until at last his agonized desire Makes possibility its slave. And then-- Horrible climax! All-undoing spite!-- Th' importunate clutching of the coward's hand From wearied Nature Devastation's secrets Doth wrest; when straight the brave black-livered man Is blown explosively from off the globe; And Death and Dread, with their white-livered slaves O'er-run the earth, and through their chattering teeth Stammer the words "Survival of the Fittest." Enough of this: I came not here to talk. Thou say'st thou hast two white-faced ones who dare Fight without guns, and spearless, to the death. Let them be brought.

LUCIAN. They fight not to the death, But under strictest rules: as, for example, Half of their persons shall not be attacked; Nor shall they suffer blows when they fall down, Nor stroke of foot at any time. And, further, That frequent opportunities of rest With succor and refreshment be secured them.

CETEWAYO. Ye gods, what cowards! Zululand, my Zululand: Personified Pusillanimity Hath ta'en thee from the bravest of the brave!

LUCIAN. Lo, the rude savage whose untutored mind Cannot perceive self-evidence, and doubts That Brave and English mean the self-same thing!

CETEWAYO. Well, well, produce these heroes. I surmise They will be carried by their nurses, lest Some barking dog or bumbling bee should scare them.

CETEWAYO _takes his state_. _Enter_ PARADISE

LYDIA. What hateful wretch is this whose mighty thews Presage destruction to his adversaries?

LORD WORTHINGTON. 'Tis Paradise.

LYDIA. He of whom Cashel spoke? A dreadful thought ices my heart. Oh, why Did Cashel leave us at the door?

_Enter_ CASHEL

LORD WORTHINGTON. Behold! The champion comes.

LYDIA. Oh, I could kiss him now, Here, before all the world. His boxing things Render him most attractive. But I fear Yon villain's fists may maul him.

WORTHINGTON. Have no fear. Hark! the king speaks.

CETEWAYO. Ye sons of the white queen: Tell me your names and deeds ere ye fall to.

PARADISE. Your royal highness, you beholds a bloke What gets his living honest by his fists. I may not have the polish of some toffs As I could mention on; but up to now No man has took my number down. I scale Close on twelve stun; my age is twenty-three; And at Bill Richardson's Blue Anchor pub Am to be heard of any day by such As likes the job. I don't know, governor, As ennythink remains for me to say.

CETEWAYO. Six wives and thirty oxen shalt thou have If on the sand thou leave thy foeman dead. Methinks he looks scornfully on thee. [_To_ CASHEL] Ha! dost thou not so?

CASHEL. Sir, I do beseech you To name the bone, or limb, or special place Where you would have me hit him with this fist.

CETEWAYO. Thou hast a noble brow; but much I fear Thine adversary will disfigure it.

CASHEL. There's a divinity that shapes our ends Rough hew them how we will. Give me the gloves.

THE MASTER OF THE REVELS. Paradise, a professor. Cashel Byron, Also professor. Time! [_They spar._

LYDIA. Eternity It seems to me until this fight be done.

CASHEL. Dread monarch: this is called the upper cut, And this a hook-hit of mine own invention. The hollow region where I plant this blow Is called the mark. My left, you will observe, I chiefly use for long shots: with my right Aiming beside the angle of the jaw And landing with a certain delicate screw I without violence knock my foeman out. Mark how he falls forward upon his face! The rules allow ten seconds to get up; And as the man is still quite silly, I Might safely finish him; but my respect For your most gracious majesty's desire To see some further triumphs of the science Of self-defence postpones awhile his doom.

PARADISE. How can a bloke do hisself proper justice With pillows on his fists?

[_He tears off his gloves and attacks_ CASHEL _with his bare knuckles_.

THE CROWD. Unfair! The rules!

CETEWAYO. The joy of battle surges boiling up And bids me join the mellay. Isandhlana And Victory! [_He falls on the bystanders._

THE CHIEFS. Victory and Isandhlana!

[_They run amok. General panic and stampede. The ring is swept away._

LUCIAN. Forbear these most irregular proceedings. Police! Police!

[_He engages_ CETEWAYO _his umbrella_. _The balcony comes down with a crash. Screams from its occupants. Indescribable confusion._

CASHEL [_dragging_ LYDIA _from the struggling heap_]. My love, my love, art hurt?

LYDIA. No, no; but save my sore o'ermatched cousin.

A POLICEMAN. Give us a lead, sir. Save the English flag. Africa tramples on it.

CASHEL. Africa! Not all the continents whose mighty shoulders The dancing diamonds of the seas bedeck Shall trample on the blue with spots of white. Now, Lydia, mark thy lover. [_He charges the Zulus._

LYDIA. Hercules Cannot withstand him. See: the king is down; The tallest chief is up, heels over head, Tossed corklike o'er my Cashel's sinewy back; And his lieutenant all deflated gasps For breath upon the sand. The others fly In vain: his fist o'er magic distances Like a chameleon's tongue shoots to its mark; And the last African upon his knees Sues piteously for quarter. [_Rushing into_ CASHEL'S _arms_.] Oh, my hero: Thou'st saved us all this day.

CASHEL. 'Twas all for thee.

CETEWAYO. [_trying to rise_]. Have I been struck by lightning?

LUCIAN. Sir, your conduct Can only be described as most ungentlemanly.

POLICEMAN. One of the prone is white.

CASHEL. 'Tis Paradise.

POLICEMAN. He's choking: he has something in his mouth.

LYDIA [_to_ CASHEL]. Oh Heaven! there is blood upon your hip. You're hurt.

CASHEL. The morsel in yon wretch's mouth Was bitten out of me.

[_Sensation._ LYDIA _screams and swoons in_ CASHEL'S _arms_.